


Fix You (To Make You Feel My Love)

by DarkShadows_EvilMind



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Attempted Murder, BDSM, Blood and Violence, Bottom Eddie Kaspbrak, Dom/sub, Domestic Fluff, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Established Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Eventual Fluff, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Guilt, Head Injury, Heavy Angst, Injury Recovery, Internalized Homophobia, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Recovery, Richie Tozier Needs a Hug, Sad with a Happy Ending, Sexual Assault, Suicidal Thoughts, Switch Richie Tozier, Top Richie Tozier, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:14:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 61,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22842328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkShadows_EvilMind/pseuds/DarkShadows_EvilMind
Summary: After Richie is senselessly beaten and nearly killed, he and Eddie must rebuild their life together—piece by broken piece. While Richie struggles with shame and self-doubt following his attack, Eddie fights to keep a brave face—knowing the love of his life was still in there somewhere, and hoping beyond belief that things could return to how they were. He wanted his Dom back, but he'd do anything to just have hispartner.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 65
Kudos: 234





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I will put trigger warnings in each chapter for those of you who may be disturbed by some content. Please heed the tags but do know this is a fic about recovery, not the assault itself—though details will come up during flashbacks as Richie struggles to cope with his trauma. 
> 
> I wanted to explore the lesser discussed topic of male/male sexual assault and what it can really do to a man's identity and perception of self. In this instance Richie's entire power dynamic is thrown off center as he wonders if he himself can still be seen by Eddie as a worthy Dom if he fell victim to such an assault.
> 
> Lots of heavy angst and subject matters, because I like to torture myself and my fluff/angst story isn't abusing me enough. But this fic also has fluff and Hurt/Comfort in later chapters and is not just a heavy, sad, and hopeless journey. 
> 
> Please let me know what you think!
> 
> \--
> 
> TW: Violence (non-graphic), Blood, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault (not shown), Brain Injury (losing time, dissociation, temporary memory loss)

Richie sat hunched over the bar, his hands encasing his water-stained glass of bourbon on the rocks. He’d asked for Four Roses and was pretty sure he’d been served Wild Turkey from the Four Roses bottle. He wanted to work up the courage to ask, maybe crack a joke about about it and the new management, but his head wasn’t in the right place.

Right now, all he wanted was to drown his sorrows for a little bit before retreating home with his tail tucked between his legs. 

He and Eddie had fought before he went to the bar, the bad kind—the real kind. The kind that didn’t end with Eddie’s pants around his ankles and his ass getting painted red by Richie’s hand for being a mouthy little brat. 

They fought because he’d sneezed, because Eddie was dusting the top of the fridge that Richie lied about having cleaned himself (because their housekeeper kept skipping that spot by accident or on purpose). He sneezed, Eddie chucked a tissue at him, Richie blew his nose, thanked him, and went in to steal a kiss to say thanks—and to say sorry, because he should’ve just dusted the damned fridge himself like he said he did. Eddie put a hand on his chest to stop him, holding his head away and glaring because _Dude! You know I hate that!_ And he meant the snot and the fact that kissing transmitted germs and he didn’t want to catch...what? Fucking dust mites? Richie had said just as much and Eddie only got angrier. 

He hated snot and he hated spit and blood and come and sweat—pretty much anything that left another person’s body and came in contact with his own. Richie knew that going in and knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that it wasn’t just _his_ germs that grossed Eddie out. Myra had complained about Eddie never wanting so much as to kiss her, and how that should’ve been her first clue that he was “screwing other men our whole marriage.” 

Richie knew all that, but being constantly denied physical affection drove him mad. He wanted a fucking kiss once in a while. Richie put up with Eddie’s control freak tendencies, his constant doctors’ appointments, his non-stop text messages about whatever pandemic was going on in the city—why couldn’t Eddie just put up with a fucking kiss?

“I’m not asking you to suck my dick or lick my ass! I want a kiss! Why is that so fucking hard for you?”

“Because you’re sick, asshole!” 

“No, I’m not! I sneezed! I just fucking sneezed!”

“Yes! Exactly! Do you know how many bacteria or—or, or _viruses_ are now sprayed _all over_ my kitchen!?”

“Last I checked, this is my fucking house!”

The fight went further than it should have. Much further… 

Most of the time, they fought because they wanted to fuck and didn’t know how else to say it. Eddie hated admitting that he liked something so filthy and unnatural. Richie hated admitting that he was turned on by another man—let alone a man so fucking annoying that it was cute. He hated himself for finding Eddie cute… Always had. 

Tonight, though, they fought because Eddie had hurt him and Richie didn’t want to admit it. 

What should’ve been a Nothing Fight, a lover’s quarrel over the irritating little traits they each had that got under the other’s skin, devolved into what seriously felt like heartbreak on Richie’s end. Things that would be forgotten about in an hour or two on a normal day, instead, had Richie grabbing his wallet and his keys and storming out.

Richie stormed out because Eddie had threatened to pack up and leave. He wouldn’t—he wouldn’t actually leave and deep down Richie knew that, because they loved each other no matter what they said when they were pissed. Richie stormed out, peeled out of the driveway loudly and recklessly to upset Eddie further, then went and bought a pack of smokes.

His plan had been to go out, get a couple drinks, smoke a cigarette, and then go home. 

Eddie would smell it on him, they’d have a fight where Eddie would tell him to take better care of himself—proving that Eddie still cared, that he still loved Richie even if he was a fuck up who might possibly have a cold and still wanted a kiss from Eddie anyway, even if it spread his germs. 

That was the plan that Richie was putting together, anyway. It seemed like it would work. Eddie wasn’t going to be able to ignore the reek of cigarette smoke on his jacket or his hair. Hell, he might force his partner into a full-on French kiss just so Eddie had to taste it on him, too. 

Maybe, Richie thought, after doing that, he would hand control over to Eddie. Maybe he would switch and let Eddie slap him around for breaking his promise to kick the habit, for not taking his health seriously enough. 

Eddie didn’t top much, but when he did—oh, fuck when he got _into it…_

Richie took a mouthful of bourbon to wash down the thought. Wouldn’t do him any good to go popping boners at the old Dolphin Dive Bar. It was hard not to, though, with fantasies of Eddie dancing around in his head like the stars on old-school cartoon characters after they got knocked upside the head. 

Yeah, if he went home and apologized the right way, Eddie would have him seeing stars alright. He’d slap him around until he was on the verge of using his safeword and then, as if sensing it, would fuck Richie’s brains out and leave him coming so hard he thought he’d black out. 

It was rough and dirty and passionate.

 _Passion._

Everything they did together was done with passion—the good and the bad. 

Richie often wondered, over the course of their two years together, if it didn’t make them at least somewhat toxic. But, then again, did it really matter? They were happy most days and no matter how loud they screamed at each other when they actually fought, they both knew in their heart of hearts that they were loved by each other. It didn’t matter if Eddie called him a stupid drunken slob for the sixth time in two hours or that the words would start to sting; Richie knew he probably deserved it and that the anger was coming from a place of love. Similarly, it didn’t matter if Richie slammed Eddie’s laptop shut and yelled at him that there _were_ things more important than work. 

Whatever started their fights, they were always passionate and loud and long. No one got hit; no one got hurt. 

That part came later—after screaming turned to kissing (necks, shoulders, chests—never their fucking mouths), turned to greedy hands grabbing onto whatever bare flesh they could find. Richie wasn’t afraid to rip a cotton shirt right down the middle or break the teeth of a metal zipper on a pair of Eddie’s work slacks if they dared come between him and what he wanted. Eddie would whine about it later, but in the moment—still burning from the heat of their fights—he would tip his head back and moan.

Finding out that bossy, control freak Eddie got off on being manhandled and put in his place had been the most amazing discovery Richie had ever made. It started with a ripped button-down work shirt and had evolved into leather paddles and restraints which damned near cost a fortune. (Only the best for Richie’s darling little kitten, of course.) They had all kinds of toys, even a drawer of rejected ones that Eddie decided he didn’t like but was too afraid to throw in the garbage because _what if the bag rips and someone sees, Richie!? Do you want that all over TMZ? Fuck, you probably do—you’re a goddamned attention whore! You’d love to just let everyone in this whole fucking city know what I let you do to me!_

(For the record, Richie would love the whole fucking world to know what Eddie let Richie do to him, but his manager and his network and their PR team did not agree.)

Under better circumstances, the memory of that little scene—Eddie being punished for daring to call his Dom a whore of any kind—would’ve had Richie palming himself through his jeans, maybe even right there at the bar. 

But not tonight. Not at the moment anyway. He was upset and nervous because what if… _what if_ he got home and Eddie really did pack up and go?

Fuck, Richie couldn’t stand it. He didn’t want to _actually_ fight. He just wanted a kiss. Was that too much to ask?

He knocked back the last of the bourbon in his glass and stood up from his bar stool. He told the bartender, Tom, he’d be back in a minute for another and flashed his pack of cigarettes. The bar was mostly deserted, but the night life was picking up outside as Happy Hour came to a close for most of the restaurants in the area. 

Out front, he realized, was the telltale red and blue flickering of a cop car. People were rushing back and forth to get between bars, and others were craning their necks to see what was going on outside.

Nope. Too much activity. Too much traffic. Richie didn’t feel like getting caught up in the melee. 

Tom must’ve caught his dejected expression as he turned around to return to his stool. The man gestured over his shoulder at the door which led to the kitchen that had been closed since Richie had started coming here when he first moved to LA. 

“There’s a service door just back that way. It’s all the way down, straight past the old dish tank. Takes you out to the alley. You can light up back there if you don’t mind smellin’ trash the whole time,” Tom said. 

“Amy’s okay with that? Customer’s being back there?” Richie asked, happy more so to be getting the Regular at the Dolphin treatment as opposed to the Celebrity treatment.

“Ah, fuck Amy. She ain’t here, now is she? It’s all yours if you want it. Just don’t let the door shut all the way or you’ll get yourself locked out.”

“Thanks man!” Richie said, a genuine smile coming to his lips as he made his way through the greasy swinging doors that probably hadn’t been washed since they were installed. There was a reason Eddie wouldn’t come here with him. 

The back room, what was meant to be a kitchen, was cluttered with boxes of cleaning supplies and God knows what. The only light came from a dim security bulb that shined over the stained tile floor where a fryer and oven probably used to be. It was like the setting of a horror movie and Richie felt his shoulders draw up a little higher as he made his way toward the glowing EXIT sign at the back of the space. God, he could practically hear Pennywise cackling from every dark crevice.

He threw open the metal door with a little more force than was probably necessary, but even though the air outside was rank as Tom had warned him, he immediately felt better. He propped the door with a cinder block that had been left outside, probably for that purpose alone, and moved down a bit from the opening so his smoke wouldn’t blow inside.

Richie shook his head as he struggled to light his cigarette, chuckling around the filter held between his lips as his hands shook a bit too much to hold the lighter steady. All these years and he was still afraid of the dark.

Once it was finally lit, he allowed himself to lean back against the brick wall and close his eyes. 

He’d have one more drink, he decided, then head home. He’d get there at about eight-ish. Eight-thirty at the latest. It was already starting to get dark out which was good, too, because Eddie had trouble getting into a scene when it was daylight—like he was some kind of sexual vampire that only came out at night.

Gay vampire?

Oh, now there was a costume idea for the network Halloween party. He might even be able to get Eds to go along with it—if Eddie was still there when he got home.

Fuck, he had to be. There was no way he could pack up that fast. It took him at least six hours to pack for their two day ski trip. No way in hell he was going to be able to pack up everything and leave in less than two.

“Hey, man. Care if I bum a cig?”

Richie opened his eyes and turned toward the voice, already reaching for the pack in his jacket pocket beside his phone. Before he could even face the man completely, a fist struck him right between the eyes with all the weight and force of semi truck. The pain barely had a chance to explode through his skull before another blow caught him in the gut, knocking him to his knees.

He couldn’t breathe to offer up his wallet—he couldn’t even get his hands to move off his reeling stomach to turn out his pockets and give the man his money and his phone and his smokes. 

“Oh, come on, pretty boy. Don’t make it easy on me.”

It was the last thing Richie remembered hearing before his mind went white with pain.

( ) ( ) ( )

Car.

Where _was_ his car?

Richie staggered onto the street, trying to make sense of the lights swirling around him and the distorted noises rushing in his ears. 

Car… 

Two streets down, at a meter on the left.

That’s right. That sounded right. Yeah…

Richie forced his legs to cooperate as he made his way down the street. Someone clipped his shoulder and Richie ended up on his knees on the sidewalk. The pain that shot through him left him gasping for air, his vision turning white. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to stifle whatever cry rose in his throat. When he opened them again, the world around him was tilted sideways and twice as loud. 

“Are you alright, man? Whoa, buddy, are you okay?” 

Hands were pulling on him, yanking him up off the ground. His head screamed, his legs buckled and he almost dropped to the ground again. Richie couldn’t bear to have someone else touching him. He thrashed against their hold and staggered a little faster down the sidewalk. 

He was dizzy and his vision was swimming.

Where was the car? Where was the damned car!?

By the time he reached it, Richie was barely able to stand upright long enough to find his keys. Two of his fingers on his right hand were numb and he almost dropped his heavy key ring on the ground after the clicking of his doors unlocking startled him. 

Richie collapsed into the car, the resulting wave of pain which shot through him was enough to make him lean over out the open door and empty his stomach into the street. He wiped his mouth on his bloodied sleeve, realizing it came away sopping wet. 

His hands were bleeding. His mouth was bleeding. His head was bleeding…

Richie pulled the door shut and slowly lifted his left hand to bring down the visor, looking at his reflection in the mirror on the other side. It was dark and the street lamps made his already distorted face look even worse. His glasses were cracked in both lenses and the left side of his face was so bloody it looked like it had been ripped off—like he were a horror movie monster. 

He pushed the visor up, nauseated by his own face. 

Was he in a car accident? 

Richie was so confused. His head was screaming and turning to look around in order to see where he was made him so dizzy. 

If he crashed his car, why wasn’t it on? Or smoking? Or upside down?

Richie leaned forward, resting his cheek on his hands which were tightly gripping the steering wheel. 

He closed his eyes, and when he opened them, he was startled to discover that he’d made it back to his car. He didn’t remember getting back up from his fall. 

His hand shook as he took his phone out of his jacket pocket, glad he’d remembered to pull it out of the pile of trash where his…

Drive. 

Richie realized he needed to drive.

The clock on his dashboard said 10:15, and all Richie could think as he struggled to keep his eyes focused on the road was that he’d left home a little after six. How did so much time pass? It took less than fifteen minutes to get to the bar from his condo. He’d stopped for a pack of smokes, had two drinks at the bar…

His head screamed and Richie fought to keep his eyes open against the wave of pain and nausea. All the street lamps swirled and twisted in front of his eyes, almost making him run a red light. The pain of being thrown forward and then back against his seat as he screeched to a stop made a sob burst from his throat. 

He didn’t realize the light had turned green until the person behind him honked—and then ended up swerving to go around him. Richie followed their shimmering tail lights for a block or two, then got on the interstate to make his way home. One exit ramp, two more street lights, and a left turn.

Home.

Richie couldn’t understand why someone was parked in his driveway. He pulled up in the space in front of the neighbor’s condo and stared at the strange, blue car. 

His heart raced in his chest, panic flooding him. Had the man stolen his wallet and found his address? Was he waiting inside to finish the job? 

Richie fumbled for his cell phone again, planning to call 911, only to be faced with a clock reading 12:02 AM. 

It was only fifteen minutes from the bar to his condo… This was his condo, right? Yeah—number 5665. How did it take him over an hour to get home?

Just beneath the clock on his lock screen was a text message preview.

_Eddie (5)  
Hey fucker. You coming home or n…_

Eddie? 

Home?

Richie blinked at the screen, his vision turning watery with tears which splashed down his chin onto his lap. 

He didn’t _live_ at this condo anymore. He’d moved out six months after he and Eddie got together because they needed more room. 

This wasn’t his _house._ How had he forgotten that he’d moved a year and a half ago? The house they’d picked out was almost forty minutes from this condo. 

Richie covered his face with his bleeding hands and cried. He was so tired and his head hurt so much. How was he going to drive another forty minutes? 

He just wanted to be _home!_ He wanted to wake up and have this whole awful night just be a dream—a fucking nightmare. 

When he looked at his phone again, it was a quarter ‘til one. 

He texted Eddie, or tried to. His fingers were mostly numb and his hands were shaking. 

He tried so hard and waited so long, but Eddie didn’t answer. Eddie was still mad about the fight. They’d had a fight, right? Yeah, that was right. That was why he went to the bar.

Things were coming together, Richie reassured himself. He would be okay. He just needed to drive.

Drive home. 

Eddie would know what to do from there. 

Just gotta put the car back into gear and drive. 

Richie couldn’t feel his left leg, then when the feeling returned to it, it was his fingers again—fading out and then coming back tingling. His head hurt so much and all he wanted was to stop the car and lay down across his back seat and _sleep._

His vision was so blurry and the cracks in his lenses made it hard to see the lines on the road in front of him. Cars kept honking at him and swerving around him, making him scared he’d get into a wreck. Eddie would kill him if he totaled his car drunk driving.

Because that’s what happened right? That was why everything hurt so much and felt so spinny? He’d just had too much to drink.

Richie couldn’t remember why he’d gone out drinking alone. Eddie liked to wind down with a cocktail or two after rough days. Eddie always knew when to cut him off and when to snatch his keys and drive them safely. 

A loud bang brought Richie out of his thoughts, his whole body jolted forward so far his face almost struck his steering wheel. His head throbbed in agony and felt another wave of nausea crash on him so suddenly that he was helpless against it—puking all over his own chest and lap. 

When he was finally able to open his eyes again, he was staring at the wall of his garage—three different door frames coming in and out of focus from the cracks in his lenses. 

Home?

Richie fell out of his car, barely able to keep his legs under him as he used the open door to pull himself up—then closed it by collapsing against it. His head was spinning more and more any time he tried to move, but he needed to get inside and get cleaned up.

Eddie wouldn’t want to see him all covered in puke.

Eddie wouldn’t want to touch him all covered in sweat and blood and snot, reeking of BO and the trash he’d been shoved into when that man—

Richie let out a stifled cry and sank down onto the floor, horrible images flashing through his sore head. He could still _feel_ it. Inside him. On him.

Eddie would be so disgusted!

Richie rubbed at his face and his arms, smearing himself in thickening, black blood as he tried to wipe off the filth. He squeezed his eyes shut and tore off his jacket and shirt, flinging them to the ground beside him. When he opened them again, he was standing in the shower.

The water at his feet was bright red and grew darker and darker the more he touched his face. He felt his cheeks, his eyebrows, his lips—everywhere. He checked his teeth to make sure he still had them, trying to figure out where all the blood was coming from. He even checked behind him to see if there was a corpse bleeding out on the floor of the glass shower stall.

Where was all the blood coming from!?

Richie stared up at the blurry faucet over his head, barely even able to make out its shape with how useless his vision was. The water came out clear, touched his body, and turned bright red. 

His head hurt really bad—every bit of him hurt really bad—and he didn’t know _why!_

Did he and Eddie have a scene that went wrong?

Was Eddie _okay!?_ Usually after a scene, they showered together! 

Why wasn’t he _here?_ Why did he hurt Richie so much and then leave him all alone? Did he make Eddie mad?

He needed to wash off all the blood so Eddie wouldn’t—

( ) ( ) ( )

The first thing Eddie saw upon waking up to the shrill beep of his alarm on his phone was Richie standing outside on their bedroom balcony. He had his back to the bedroom, facing out at the hills and the interstate in the distance, dressed in gray sweatpants and one of Eddie’s dark red hoodies. 

The next thing Eddie noticed was the billowing cloud of smoke coming from Richie’s right hand.

A _fucking_ cigarette.

“Are you fucking kidding me,” Eddie muttered under his breath, throwing off his blankets and storming toward the sliding glass door which led to the balcony. He hadn’t even shut off his alarm he was so pissed.

“Are you _fucking_ smoking right now!?” Eddie screamed, more annoyed than he should be that the sliding glass door couldn’t slam for dramatic effect. Richie tensed, but didn’t turn to face him. In fact, he brought the cigarette up to his mouth and took a drag. There was a pile of spent cigarette filters tossed carelessly down around his bare feet along with a pile of ash. 

Eddie had never been so pissed at Richie in his entire life.

“Answer me! Are you fucking _smoking_ right now?” Eddie grabbed him by his arm and yanked him, _hard,_ prepared to lay into him with all the pent up anger and frustration he still had left over from yesterday and then some. Then, as soon as he saw Richie’s face—or what was left of it—his stomach dropped and he jerked backwards, almost falling against the sliding glass door. 

Richie looked like his head had gone through a windshield—all bruised up and cut and bloody. His bottom lip was basically _black._ Both of his eyes, beneath his absolutely wrecked glasses were black and bloodshot. 

Eyes he kept downcast like he was ashamed.

“Richie?” Eddie muttered, not sure if the sound even came out. His throat felt like it had closed off completely and he wanted to get his inhaler—the smoke from Richie’s still burning cigarette not helping his asthma at all—but he was glued in place. 

Was this a nightmare? Was this all a fucking nightmare? 

There were bloodstains on the knees of Richie’s sweatpants and spatters of it leading all the way up to his chest. He was so cut up he looked like he should be dead. The bruises on his face were _black._

“Richie, what happened?” Eddie choked out, forcing himself to take a step forward. He reached out to touch Richie’s arm and it seemed as if Richie just realized that he was there. Richie jerked backwards as if startled and dropped his cigarette onto the blue and green outdoor rug at his feet. 

Eddie hurried to duck and grab it, blotting it out on the concrete beside the rug and setting the filter aside. By the time he was standing again, Richie had the pack of cigarettes back in his hand from one of his pockets and was digging at the empty box, looking for another smoke.

“Richie?” Eddie repeated, staring at his partner who flinched in surprise again upon hearing his name.

He’d already forgotten Eddie was standing there. 

“Richie, honey, were you in an accident? Are you okay?” Eddie asked. That was the only thing that made sense. He’d been in a car accident. He’d stormed out all pissed off, apparently got himself some cigarettes, got drunk and wrecked his car. He probably wasn’t wearing his seat belt—he probably went through the fucking windshield! How the fuck was he still standing? How was he still alive!? 

Eddie couldn’t breathe! He couldn’t _fucking_ breathe!

“I fucked up,” Richie mumbled, voice raw and sounding as ragged as his body looked. 

“What? What does that—what does that mean? Richie, honey, _talk_ to me,” Eddie choked. “Did you get in an accident? It’s okay if you did! You drink too much, maybe? Crash the car? It’s okay if you did,” he said again when Richie didn’t answer him. He still had his eyes fixed on the ground and had started swaying back and forth a little. One of his hands shot out to grab the metal railing of their balcony, his knuckles turning white with how hard he gripped it. “We’ll fix it! It’s okay—it’s okay, we’ll fix it. Just… Do you—Do you remember where it happened? Did you walk home?”

“Car’s fine, Eds,” Richie said, voice shaking as a spasm rocketed through his body that made him squeeze his eyes shut. 

“Okay—Okay, that’s good! Right? Were you _hit_ by a car? Do I need to kill somebody?” Eddie couldn’t bear to see Richie like this. It was so, so clear he needed a hospital, but Eddie’s brain was going into overload. All he wanted was to take Richie into his arms and hold him—but he was afraid of the damage it would do to any internal injuries he couldn’t see. All he dared allow himself to do was rub Richie’s back in quick, heavy strokes, as if he were trying to warm him up from being out too long in the cold.

Like their ski trip with the Losers last winter. Richie had only brought a flimsy wool coat and gloves—no hat or scarf. He’d played in the snow so long he almost got hypothermia, then had the nerve to tease Eddie for being worried as Eddie rubbed the color back into his frozen fingertips. 

Fingertips which now held cracked nails, caked with dried blood. Richie’s knuckles were as battered as his face and his right hand looked swollen.

“Richie? Who did this to you?” Eddie asked, voice hitching halfway through his sentence. He wanted his inhaler so bad, but he was scared if he let Richie go for even a second, he’d fall over off their balcony.

“Don’t know,” Richie said, eyes still downcast though now dripping with tears. He really didn’t know what happened… Eddie could tell. 

He had never seen Richie so afraid in his life—and he’d seen him pretty fucking scared. 

“Richie, talk to me, baby. What happened? What _happened?”_

He hit his head, that was what happened. He hit his head and had a fucking concussion if not something worse. Eddie moved to stand a little closer to his partner, getting Richie’s arm around him so he could guide him into their bedroom. Richie almost fell with every single step and started whining in pain even before sinking down onto their bed. He clutched his head in his hands, moaning in agony as his body rocked back and forth.

Eddie quickly shut off the alarm he’d left beeping on his phone. Richie’s soft cries filled up their bedroom as Eddie grabbed tissues for him from the box on his nightstand. He wiped under Richie’s nose for him, clearing away more blood than snot. 

Richie looked around their bedroom like he had no idea where he was.

“Baby, I need to take you to a doctor,” Eddie said, heart shattering as Richie flinched from the sound of his voice. He’d forgotten Eddie was there.

Something was _wrong._ Something was seriously wrong and Eddie was terrified that no amount of medicine was going to be able to fix it. 

“Doctor?” Richie asked, the word slurred as it came out of his mouth.

“I’m calling an ambulance. You just—You just stay right there, okay? Don’t move. Don’t move your head.” Eddie wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, trying his best to keep his composure for Richie who was trying to ask why Eddie thought he needed a doctor. 

The more he spoke, the more Eddie felt the panic well up inside of him. As he spoke with the operator, trying not to plead when he asked for an ambulance, Richie was answering him as if he thought Eddie were speaking to _him._

When he ended the call, he noticed the incoming texts showing on his lock screen. Four from Richie, the last coming in around one that morning.

_Richie: (4)  
C. an You hrlll p?. 12:50 AM_

Eddie clicked the notification to read the rest, heart nearly stopping in his chest as he did. 

_In most. Try to go hmoe nt home. 12:43AM  
2 Tired try div. Scared miggt crash. 12:46AM  
Can I sned Locat. Ion? 12:47AM  
C. an You hrlll p? 12:50AM_

“Oh, what the fuck, Richie?” Eddie said, hand shaking as he lowered the phone. He couldn’t make out what his boyfriend had been trying to tell him, but there was no doubt in his mind that Richie had been fucked up long before he got behind the wheel of his car. He’d _driven_ like this. He could’ve _died._

He knew he shouldn’t have gone to bed without Richie. He _knew_ it. Richie hadn’t stayed out all night without telling him since they’d moved in together. Not _once._ No matter how angry they got at each other. How had he not realized something was _this_ wrong?

“Baby,” Eddie said, coming to kneel at Richie’s feet so Richie couldn’t avoid his gaze anymore. He grabbed both of Richie’s hands, not caring about the blood that got on him or the fact that Richie had gone back to wiping the snot from under his own nose on the back of his hand. He’d splashed around in his fair share of sewer water and he wasn’t about to let a few rhinovirus germs come between him and the last scraps of comfort he might ever be able to give his partner. “Baby, can you hear me?” Eddie asked, hating how out of focus and hazy Richie’s eyes were behind his broken glasses. 

“Eds?” Richie said, not even blinking—his eyes just staring at Eddie, empty.

“I called an ambulance, okay? They’ll be here soon. Do you have your phone, honey, so I can call Steve? Let him know you’re sick?”

“Is it Tuesday?” Richie asked, taking his hands away from Eddie’s in order to feel the pockets of his sweatpants and hoodie, seeking the phone he didn’t seem to have on him.

Sweatpants… He’d changed _clothes_ in this condition. Fuck, he took a _shower_ in this condition, Eddie realized. His hair wasn’t matted with blood like it would’ve been if this damage were fresh. He’d driven his car to their house with a brain injury...and took a fucking shower.

How many times did he fall over again while he did it? There was no way he’d stayed on his feet the whole time. 

“Honey, it’s Thursday,” Eddie said, sniffing back more tears as Richie seemed to ponder over this bit of information. He didn’t realize how badly he was injured and Eddie wasn’t even sure he should tell him or try to convince him. 

“I have a call at eleven. Is it eleven?”

“Baby, you’re going to the _hospital,”_ Eddie repeated.

“I think my phone is in the car,” Richie said, his gaze coming into focus for one brief moment. “But the car is dirty. You can’t go.”

“I’ll get it when the ambulance gets here, okay? I don’t want to leave you here alone any longer than I have to, okay?”

“I’m really cold.”

“Cold?” Eddie said, immediately grabbing up one edge of their comforter and bringing it around Richie’s shoulders. He seemed startled by its touch, but grateful. “Is that better? Richie?”

“Is it… Is it time for me to go to work?”

“Baby,” Eddie said, voice breaking with a sob. He was so fucking scared. He was _beyond_ scared. Richie had no idea where he was, what time it was, or what even happened to get him in this condition. It was worse than a concussion—worse than anything Eddie had ever seen before. 

He was afraid Richie’s brain had started to swell from the injury—whether from a car crash or an assault, he didn’t know. God help him somebody didn’t do this to him on purpose. Richie didn’t _deserve_ that. 

“Hey, Eds?” Richie murmured, squirming as he tried to pull the blanket tighter around himself. Eddie was fast to help him, tucking it in to his lap and then coming to sit beside him on the bed in order to hold him. “Eds?”

“Yeah?” Eddie leaned his head as gently and lightly as he could against Richie’s shoulder—mind racing so fast he barely heard Richie talking to him.

“Do you think… Do you think we could tell the guys...about us?”

Tears cut down Eddie’s cheeks as he squeezed his eyes closed against the fresh wave of pain. They’d come out to their friends when they bought their house—well, when Richie bought their house—six months after they started sharing Richie’s condo. That was almost two years ago. _Two years_ ago. Eddie couldn’t even begin to imagine where Richie’s mind was or why that was the thought which came to it as they sat together watching the sun come up, waiting for the scream of sirens.

“Yeah. I want ‘em to know,” Eddie said, sniffling. “I want everyone to know. Because I love you. Always have—always will. You know that. Right? You know that, Richie?”

“Spaghetti… Ed Spaghed. I think… I think everybody knows that.” Richie sighed, then let out a whimper and seemed to clutch tighter at the blanket around him. “Do you hear a tornado siren? I haven’t heard one since...since…”

There were no sirens, not even for the ambulance, and it scared Eddie so much to know he heard something that loud inside his head. He never finished his thought, either, just let it trail off into silence while Eddie held him still. 

By the time the ambulance arrived, Richie was no longer responding to him at all. His eyes were open and he blinked and made pained little sounds anytime he shifted the slightest bit, but he didn’t answer to any of the things Eddie told him.

At the pounding of the door, Eddie hurried downstairs to let the EMTs inside. He’d had to pass the bathroom outside in the hallway and almost collapsed from the sight of blood just on the carpet leading into it. Their entire hallway looked like a crime scene…

Eddie knew he looked a wreck when he opened the door for the EMTS, and could barely even speak to tell them where his partner was. He gestured vaguely toward the stairs before looking outside, past their bodies at the ambulance, to see if Richie had parked in the street or the driveway. No sign of the car and no blood spatters leading up to their front porch.

Once the EMTS were well on their way upstairs with a gurney, Eddie hurried to the garage, finding the door to be opened a crack—letting who knows how many bugs inside. The garage door was still up, but Eddie’s attention immediately went to the passenger side mirror of Richie’s Mustang which was sitting dejectedly on the hood. He’d clipped it on the way into the garage, then somehow managed to go and retrieve it despite the condition he was in. He’d bent down to pick it up with a brain injury…

God, he could’ve fucking _died!_ Eddie wanted to scream it until his throat bled, but all that came out was another choked sob.

Besides the missing mirror and the smear of blood and vomit running down the door, there was no damage done to the car at all. He’d been driving like this. He didn’t wreck. He didn’t get hurt from a wreck… He’d been hurt and tried to get Eddie to come find him, then drove home when Eddie didn’t answer.

 _He could’ve died!_

Eddie gagged, dry heaving for entirely too long before managing to force himself to reach past the smear of vomit to open the car door and look inside. He _had_ to do this. He needed to call Richie’s manager so their PR team could stop rumors from spreading once word got out that he was in the hospital. 

The inside of Richie’s car was covered in blood. It reeked of it. No lingering smell of booze. Just blood and cigarettes. 

He hadn’t even been drunk.

The horrible story was starting to snap together in Eddie’s mind, and then as if to rub salt in the wound, he remembered _why_ Richie had left last night. He remembered their argument, how he’d denied Richie a kiss because he was fighting a cold and Eddie hadn’t wanted to catch it.

Richie just wanted to kiss him and if Eddie had just let that happen, _none of this would’ve happened!_ It was entirely his fault!

Where the _fuck_ was his inhaler!?

When Eddie leaned out of the car and went to go back inside the house, he came face-to-face with a police officer.

“Mr. Kaspbrak?”

“Yes?” Eddie answered, suddenly feeling as if he were about to be told the worst news yet—like this officer was the soldier coming to his door to tell him his partner had died at war. 

“I’m going to need you to stay here and answer a few questions. You can meet up with your partner at the hospital when we’re done here, alright?”

“Which hospital?” Eddie asked.

“I’m afraid I can’t disclose that.”

“You think _I_ did this!?” Eddie asked, feeling like he’d just been punched in the face. 

“Sir, I’m going to need you to stay calm. The sooner you cooperate, the sooner we can clear this up.”

Eddie felt as though his entire world had ended. Someone or something had tried to kill his partner—his _life_ partner, his favorite fucking person on the whole godforsaken planet—and now they wanted to pin it on _him._

Maybe they were right to, Eddie thought. Maybe it was the only way he could ever pay for what he’d done.

“Is that his car?” The officer asked, gesturing to the Mustang.

“Yeah, that’s his car. He fuckin’ drove it here last night—in _that_ condition!” He screamed as he heard the EMTS moving around on the first floor with the gurney. His instinct told him to hurry to Richie’s side—make sure he was okay and that they were treating him properly—but the officer blocked him when he moved.

“Red Mustang…” The officer said.

“So what? Are you gonna ask about his insurance rates? Wanna fuckin’ know where he bought it?” Eddie yelled, earning little more than a shake of the head from the cop.

“We had reports last night of a red sports car, possibly a Mustang or a Camaro, driving erratically. Stopping in intersections. Driving the wrong way—”

“Please stop,” Eddie said, gagging as he covered his face with his hands. That could’ve been anyone, he thought. There were a million lunatics with red sports cars in LA, but somehow he knew it was Richie.

“It would be a miracle if—”

“Yeah, well, it fuckin’ was! He drove home and he fucking—fucking took a shower and changed his goddamned clothes! All with his head fucked up! All before I got up at six in the morning! He’s been like this since one! Since _one in the morning!_ He texted me!” He couldn’t breathe! He couldn’t fucking breathe! “I need my inhaler!”

He was allowed to go upstairs to his bedroom to retrieve the inhaler, probably only because he was in hysterics and the officer had lost his patience. Even so, the man was close behind him after checking out the inside of Richie’s car. He turned on the light in the bathroom and was staring at the shower which was coated in droplets of blood and crimson hand prints wherever Richie had tried to hold himself up. There was more vomit on the side of the toilet bowl, dripping onto the tile floor.

“You didn’t hear him come home?” The officer asked.

Eddie, with no answer, sank down against the wall and cried—not caring if he looked pathetic. Not caring if he looked weak or stupid or senseless. His heart was broken and the amount of guilt he felt was tearing him limb from limb.

There was no way for him to survive this…


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suck at hospital scenes and I'm sorry! We won't be here long because hospital stays from head injuries can be a novel in and of themselves! Hopefully this chapter doesn't disappoint! I'm really sorry if it does. I'm trying to do the situation justice but know I'm probably very far off.

Eddie had been in the private waiting room for well over three hours without a single hospital representative checking in with him. His eyes stayed fixed on the door from which the nurses and staff infrequently entered and exited, hoping that someone would come by with news—good news—to put him out of his misery. His phone rang a time or two as he stayed in the green-carpeted waiting room, but he didn’t answer it. He had his hands clasped in front of him, his elbows propped on his knees and his lips pressed to his knuckles. 

Richie’s phone vibrated in his pocket from incoming texts, but until Steve actually tried to call him, Eddie couldn’t unlock the phone to answer it. It seemed Richie had changed the access code, or Eddie was too anxious to remember what it was.

Eventually Steve _would_ call, right? Eddie needed to tell him what had happened.

The green and gold waiting room with all of its warm lighting a wood panel accents was making him sick. It was too hot in here. Unknown numbers of viruses and bacteria squirming on every surface. Eddie wished he could work up the nerve to ask the next nurse he saw if she could spare him a face mask and a pair of latex gloves. He’d be no use to Richie if he caught the fucking plague from this place. 

Richie needed him _healthy,_ strong. The only information Eddie had been given upon reaching the hospital was that Richie was expected to survive, but it was still too soon to say how much damage had been done. He wasn’t told what they were doing. He hadn’t been told if Richie was conscious still or in a coma, or in surgery. He didn’t know, and not knowing was tearing him apart. 

The cop, Officer Simmons, had come by the hospital within the last hour to update Eddie on what he had uncovered and to speak with the hospital staff about their findings. The police had found a receipt for the cigarettes Richie had bought wadded up in his Mustang’s cup holder and used it to track his last known location before the assault. He’d gone to a convenience store across from the shitty dive bar, the Dolphin, that Richie loved even though they fucked up his drinks every single time he went. 

The bartender who had been working last night remembered Richie going out back to smoke a cigarette since there was some kind of commotion out front of the bar. He’d let Richie go out the service door behind the kitchen to smoke where the employees usually did on their breaks. He said Richie had been gone about twenty minutes before he went to check on him because he hadn’t closed his tab, which was odd because he always paid and always tipped big. Richie hadn’t been drunk, so the bartender was sure he hadn’t forgotten about it. However, when he went to check behind the bar, the cinder block they used to prop the self-locking door was gone and so was Richie. He figured Richie had gotten himself locked out and got mixed up coming around to the front of the bar somehow, but he didn’t see Richie again that night. The man told the cops that he assumed something important came up and Richie would come back later to collect his credit card that he’d left for his tab. 

When the police inspected the alley, they found blood spatters and the missing cinder block buried under a couple bags of trash—completely soaked in blood. The bartender remembered seeing a silver car parked in the alley that belonged to the owner of the neighboring business. She claimed that there had been a dent in the side of her car and rust colored dirt that she’d hosed off, assuming someone had struck her car with an over-stuffed garbage bag. She’d left to go home around ten-thirty or so, she told them, and hadn’t noticed anyone strange or suspicious in the alley. 

The officers told Eddie that the assault happened in that alleyway and that Richie had been left laying in the dirt to die between the silver car and the brick wall. It was the only way the bartender wouldn’t have been able to see him when he went outside to check for him. 

He must’ve regained consciousness before the business owner moved her car and started walking to find his car… His car which had been issued a parking ticket for staying at the meter two hours past the allotment of time he’d paid for. (For what it was worth, the officer said he would talk to some people and see if he could get the ticket dismissed, considering the circumstances. It was, he said, the least he could do.)

There was traffic camera footage of his Mustang struggling to maneuver through the city, stopping in intersections, driving the wrong way, swerving as if to go around obstacles that weren’t there...coming to dead stops in the middle of the street. It seemed he’d gone from one side of town and then back all the way to the other to go home.

Suddenly, Richie’s fractured text messages from the night before started to make sense. 

_In most. Try to go hmoe nt home._

I’m lost. Trying to go home. Not home.

He’d gone to their old condo and Eddie was willing to bet money on it. Why else would he have ended up on the wrong side of the city?

_2 Tired try div. Scared miggt crash._

Self explanatory. He had his head crushed in with a cinder block. He was too tired to try driving back to their house from the condo forty minutes away. He was scared he might wreck, with good reason.

 _Can I sned Locat. Ion? C. an You hrlll p?_

Can I send you my location? Can you help? 

He needed Eddie to come save him and Eddie had been too busy popping sleeping pills in order to go to bed while angry that he’d missed it. He’d let Richie down probably the only time in their life that it would ever really _matter._

Eddie felt so miserable he thought he might die from it. 

Some man had attacked Richie and beat him so badly the police were calling it attempted homicide. He didn’t even take Richie’s wallet or his phone. Why would someone do that? Why would anyone want to beat Richie to death?

It made no sense and Eddie was on the verge of collapse just trying to sort it out. 

Maybe there was more to it—something the doctors hadn’t told him yet because they were too busy trying to save his battered brain. 

Another hour, maybe two, ticked by and Richie’s phone finally began to ring in his pocket. Eddie dug it out with a shaking hand, blinking hard against the dryness of his eyes. Had he forgotten to blink when he entered the staring contest with the heavy, wooden door?

“Hello?” Eddie said, having to clear his throat and try again. “Hello? Steve?”

“Ye—Yes. Hello. Hi? Eddie?” The man stammered.

“Yeah… Yeah, it’s me. Listen, um… There’s been an accident,” Eddie said, tears immediately welling in his eyes and causing his voice to catch in his throat. Accident? No. This was no fucking accident.

“I saw on the news, Eddie. They’re saying Richie was _attacked?”_

So it was already on the news? Great. Eddie imagined the entire Losers’ Club was about to start blowing up his phone any minute. 

“Hello? Are you there?”

“Yeah… I’m—I’m here. Sorry,” Eddie said, grabbing a tissue from the box next to him on the table beside a hideous, gold lamp. “He’s got a really bad head injury and he’s...he’s here in the hospital and no one’s talking to me and—and I don’t know what to do. I don’t know if he’s okay or—or if...if he’s _dead.”_

Poor Steve just called to check in and now got a full dose of Eddie’s mental breakdown. 

“What hospital are you at? I’ll be there. It’s going to be okay! It will. Richie’s a strong motherfucker. You know that.” Despite his words of encouragement, his voice was shaking too. 

Eddie told him, said a bunch of useless details about how much he hated this particular hospital out of all the ones he’d gone to since moving to LA, and stared at the phone after the call ended—now unlocked. 

Richie had dozens of texts from people at his studio asking why he wasn’t there yet and asking why he’d missed some conference call. He had Eddie’s angry texts from the night before too, which Eddie—hands shaking—deleted. Richie didn’t need to see those messages...if he could even see after everything that happened.

Brain injuries could cause blindness...deafness. Eddie used all of his willpower not to Google all the damage a brain injury could do. He remembered how Richie’s words had slurred when he’d been talking this morning. That could be permanent. His equilibrium could be forever thrown off. He could lose feeling permanently in parts of his body…

Memories could’ve been permanently erased. His behavior could change. He could become aggressive and violent, or timid and anxious. 

The things Eddie knew were already scary enough.

Eddie let Richie’s phone turn black in his palm. He was staring ahead at the green carpet, trying not to cry. Everything just felt so hopeless and it was all his fault—it was his fault for _everything._

Eddie covered his face with his hands and sobbed. What did it matter? There was no one here anyway. No one was coming to check on him or tell how Richie was doing. Maybe he was dead and they didn’t have the legal authority to tell him and were just waiting for him to figure it out and leave on his own. He cried until he had nearly filled the little trashcan beside his seat with tissues. He needed some fucking hand sanitizer but the bottle beside the box of tissues was empty. 

Then, as if to torture him further, Eddie’s mind began to spin around the condition Richie had been in when he’d gotten home. All open wounds and bloody. He’d been left laying in a filthy alleyway next to _trash._ He could’ve fallen on a used needle—or, or filthy bandages or rotten food. So much bacteria and filth that could’ve gotten into all of his cuts and scrapes. What if something from that cinder block got smashed into his brain directly? What if Richie was—

“Whoa, whoa—whoa, hey there. Eddie?” 

A warm hand fell on his shoulder, making him realize that his lungs were screaming and he couldn’t get enough air into his lungs. His throat was closing up and it took three tries to get his inhaler to work. 

Steve had arrived and another hour had passed—another hour with no word about Richie.

“Are you alright?” Steve asked, sinking down in the chair next to Eddie. He leaned over Eddie’s lap in order to grab a tissue and handed it to Eddie who accepted it and blew his nose for what felt like the thousandth time. The skin beneath it was raw and Eddie was willing to bet that it was close to bleeding, too. Just what he needed—an open wound in the germ-den of a hospital. “Eddie? Is… Did something happen? Something _else?”_

“No,” Eddie said, his voice thick. “No one’s told me shit. Could be dead for all I know. No one’s talking.”

“Well… Sometimes, no news is good news,” Steve said, sighing and leaning back in his chair. “Mind if I wait with you?”

“Sure, yeah,” Eddie said, biting back the rude comments that came to mind—like the fact Steve was only here because Richie was his cash cow. 

It wasn’t true, but no one else in this whole fucking city cared about Richie the way Eddie did. He had no other friends—no _good_ ones anyway. He was lonely and a drunk when Eddie moved out here, only surrounded by friends if he was hosting the party or enjoying the limelight. 

Maybe one of _them_ did it. Maybe someone from the studio who felt slighted by Richie or thought he didn’t deserve the attention he got. 

“They didn’t say much on the news except that he was in critical condition,” Steve said.

“Yeah,” Eddie said, his stomach churning. “Having your head bashed in with a cinder block does that.” He had to grab another tissue, but could still hear Steve’s pained cry over the sound of him blowing his nose. 

“Do they know who—”

“No. No one knows anything and no one’s telling me anything. I’m about to go back there and _find_ him.”

“I’m sure someone will let us know soon,” Steve said, his voice gentle but firm. It was the same tone he used when trying to talk Richie out of doing something stupid. If you just told Richie no, he was bound to do whatever he’d been planning anyway—out of spite. “Do you need anything? I can go get you something to eat or...or some water, maybe? There’s a vending machine out in the lobby.”

“I’m… I’m fine. I don’t want anything.”

Steve nodded and fell into silence, checking his phone and scrolling through messages and social media pages. He stepped out once to make a phone call, then came back and sat around for about ten minutes before going to make another. His presence made Eddie feel even more alone. 

Then, finally, a woman in a telltale white coat came through the wooden door with a clipboard and came toward them.

“Mr. Kaspbrak?” She said, glancing at her clipboard and then at Eddie as he got to his feet. “I’m Dr. Hoffman. I’m the head of neurosurgery team here and I’ve been looking over Mr. Tozier’s treatment since he was brought in this morning. He is out of surgery and he’s awake—alert. He’s responding well to the treatment—”

“What treatment exactly?” Eddie asked, hoping his tone came out less desperate than he felt. 

“We had to drain the excess fluid around his brain. His skull was fractured in six places and...” She looked down at her clipboard and Eddie felt a weird spark of rage go through him when her lips twitched with a smile. “He’s not very happy with the haircut, but it had to be done.” She offered Eddie a smile and Eddie thought, if she could look at him like that, maybe it _was_ okay. Maybe Richie was fine and he’d pull through with the luck of the devil. If he was aware enough of himself to complain about having his head shaved after going through brain surgery, maybe nothing will have changed.

And then she looked down at her clipboard again and her smile was gone, and Eddie’s stomach dropped. 

“There is one more thing, if you and I could speak in private.” Her eyes darted to Steve, and then back to Eddie. 

He seemed to take the hint and left the waiting room with his phone up to his ear, pretending he got a call—as if it made it less obvious to anyone outside the private wing that he’d been asked to leave. 

“Mr. Kaspbrak, there is substantial evidence to suggest that Mr. Tozier was sexually assaulted.”

All the hope Eddie felt drained away. His shoulders fell and tears welled in his eyes so quickly he couldn’t even try to blink them back. 

“We’ve given him some medication to help stop the transmission of any disease that his attacker may have carried. He’s also on some medication to help prevent any more fluid build up and to help with the pain.”

Medication? Why was she telling him about medication?

Eddie’s brain was stuck, frozen perpetually on the last thing he’d heard. Sexually assaulted… His partner had been sexually assaulted. _Richie_ had been sexually assaulted. 

“I know this is a lot to process—”

“Does he know?” Eddie asked, looking up at the doctor. When he talked to Richie that morning, he hadn’t been coherent at all—he said he didn’t know what happened. He couldn’t remember anything. Was it the same now? Did it all come _back?_ “Does Richie know what happened?”

“At the moment, he does not. The last thing he says he remembers was buying cigarettes. He seems to believe that he was in a car accident. Given his condition, we ask that you refrain from giving him these details. We don’t want him to get too excitable or overwhelmed. He needs to stay calm and we’re limiting outside stimulation as much as possible. You _can_ see him. We ask that only one person at a time is in the room and that you please keep calm and use a low voice.” She listed more and more rules, advising him against asking about what Richie remembered or bringing up subjects such as work that might cause him to become stressed.

As if Eddie was about to yell at Richie for missing some lunch meeting after he’d been _sexually assaulted_ and nearly murdered. 

Some fucker raped his boyfriend and tried to kill him.

And Richie didn’t even fucking know it happened.

“Will his… Will his memory come back?” Eddie asked, wiping his face on the heel of his hand. 

“It’s too soon to tell. With injuries such as these, especially given the nature of the incident, it’s possible that he might have blocked it out. It might be from the injury or his memory loss could be a post-traumatic response. For the time being, it’s best he doesn’t know.”

“But… But if he doesn’t remember, do we tell him at all? I mean… We have to, right?”

“It’s important that he know, just not at this time,” the doctor said, her tone implying that she thought Eddie were about to break into Richie’s hospital room belting out the news. “He’s still in the very early stages of recovery and causing him stress can slow his healing tremendously. When the time comes, you can be the one to tell him, if you choose, or a member our staff can talk with him. It could be in the next couple of days, or it could be weeks from now.”

“He—He could be here for weeks?” Eddie asked, heart nearly stopping in his chest. 

“It’s possible. We won’t know until more time has passed. He’s still on a lot of medication and though he’s alert _now,_ his condition could change. It’s best he stay at least a few days for observation. You’re welcome to visit for as long as you’d like. He has a private room and, for your peace of mind, given his status, we have him in our files under a different name. The press should not find out any details from us and visitors are being asked for proof of relation to Mr. Tozier. That being said, if there are any individuals we need to be on the lookout for, we ask that you provide those names.”

Eddie nodded along, his mind spinning from how much information was being thrown at it. Richie still didn’t know what happened—might never even remember it. That would be better, wouldn’t it? Or would that just mean night terrors and flashbacks? Like all those years after Derry. Eddie had seen that fucking clown in nightmares, no idea it was real. But Richie would know the nightmares were real...because they’d tell him. It was going to tear him apart.

“Now, as I’ve said, I know this is a lot to process. If you have any questions, you can ask for me or a member of our team. We’ll be happy to help you.” She smiled at him, but it didn’t leave Eddie feeling reassured. “You can follow me to his room now if you’re ready. I’ll send someone to take care of the, uh, coworker,” she added, gesturing her head toward the door by which Steve had left.

Maybe, Eddie thought, he’d judged her too soon. He kind of liked this woman.

( ) ( ) ( )

Richie’s left hand was completely numb, but he didn’t feel like bringing it up because he had a feeling they would just prod him with more needles again. He already had a headache from hell and the bandages wrapped around his shaved head were too fucking tight. He was downright miserable and the last thing he wanted was more needles pricking him. 

His room was dim and far too dingy. He shouldn’t be exposed to bright lights, they said. Or TV or music or his cell phone which he was pretty sure he lost or had confiscated. It wasn’t in his room, that was for sure.

Maybe it was still in his car or in pieces beside the highway or wherever he’d crashed it. 

_If_ he crashed it. Any time he asked how he got here, the doctors and nurses just told him to rest. How the hell was he supposed to rest when he felt like his head was being crushed between Mrs. K’s—oh, hey, speak of the devil. 

There was a soft tap on his door and then some shadowy, blurry figure was creeping into the room. Richie would know that blurry blob of human anywhere. He saw it often enough, sliding around their bedroom way too early in the morning, getting ready to leave for work.

“Eddie,” he said. 

“Hey—Hey, baby,” Eddie said. His voice was an absolute wreck and Richie felt his chest clench. He was kind of thankful he didn’t have his glasses, just so he couldn’t see the expression on Eddie’s face. It was probably a fuckton of disappointment because he always warned Richie that his driving was going to get him killed.

Then again, maybe he’d look pleased. Maybe he’d think this would have taught Richie a lesson.

If he wasn’t bound for jail for drunk driving after they let him out of the hospital, Richie was sure he’d find out just how disappointed in him his partner was once they got home. Eddie would be polite and kind in public, but back home he’d tear him apart—in a lot of different ways. 

“How are you feeling?” Eddie asked, quietly scooting a chair over to Richie’s bed and sitting down. He was holding the hand Richie couldn’t feel and that made him a lot sadder than it should’ve. “Hey. No, no, no. It’s okay.” Richie didn’t realize he was crying until Eddie was wiping the tears away from his cheeks.

The meds he was on must’ve been pretty good. Usually it took more than a simple thought to make him cry.

“Are you in pain? Do you need the doctor?”

“I’m fine,” Richie said, unable to bear how quiet and gentle Eddie’s voice was. This wasn’t his polite, ‘we’re in public and I hate you for it’ tone of voice. Eddie sounded hurt and scared. Richie wondered just how bad his face must look for Eddie to act that way. Or maybe it was his haircut. “It’s terrible. Worst hair salon in all of Beverly Hills.”

Eddie’s only response was to shush him and gently caress the bandages around Richie’s head with the tips of his fingers. 

“Is… Am I okay, Eds?” Richie asked. He wasn’t used to Eddie being so tender. Or quiet. Even when he was sick and Eddie was taking care of him at home, it was usually coupled with insults and name-calling. 

“You will be,” Eddie said, sniffing loudly and pulling one of his hands away from Richie’s numb hand in order to wipe under his nose. “You are. It’s okay. We’re okay. I love you.”

 _We’re_ okay? Did they have a fight? Oh, fuck, the cigarettes. Eddie must’ve found out about the cigarettes after he’d crashed. 

Why the fuck did he even buy cigarettes? He hadn’t smoked in two months.

“I love you, too,” Richie said, looking down at his lap and trying to think—trying to remember—why he would break his promise to Eddie and buy cigarettes. 

“Steve’s here. They said only one visitor at a time though, so… I don’t know. He’s going to be waiting a long time.” Eddie chuckled a little as he said it, but it sounded like he was crying.

“Did I lose my glasses in the accident?” Richie asked. 

“They broke, honey. I think… I think they were taken as evidence.”

“Evidence?” Fuck. He was going to jail. He didn’t know how they’d pin drunk driving on him with his glasses, but a lot of other shit didn’t make sense right now either.

As if to punish him for thinking too hard, his headache got worse and he tipped his head back against his pillow. 

“I can get your old ones from home. I’ll bring you anything you want.”

“I want to go home, too,” Richie said, feeling his face grow wet again. He didn’t deserve to have Eddie here with him, but the thought of Eddie going away—leaving him here by himself—made Richie so unbelievably sad. He couldn’t believe he’d fucked up this much…

It was a miracle Eddie even came to see him at all. 

“You will, honey. You will. Real soon. We just have to get you better first.”

“Better?” Was he sentenced to rehab instead of jail? Steve must’ve pulled some incredible strings to pull that off. Especially since Richie didn’t remember going to court before ending up in here… 

“Yeah. Can’t have you around the house with that haircut,” Eddie said—but instead of laughing, he just sobbed.

He _sobbed._

“Eddie? What’s happening?” Richie asked.

“Nothing, baby. Nothing. It’s fine,” he said, his voice so choked Richie could barely make out what he said. “Just worried about you. I-I was worried, Richie. Scared me… It scared me.”

What scared him, Richie had no idea. He was afraid to ask. He was so confused and just...lost. 

Nothing made any sense. 

“I did...crash the car, right?”

“Into our garage,” Eddie said, sniffing back more tears. “Took the mirror off it. House’s fine.”

“You called the cops on me?” Richie asked. If that was how he got this hurt, how the hell did he only take the mirror off the car? Or did Eddie beat him up for hitting the house with his car?

 _“No._ No, honey.”

“Then why are my glasses evidence?” Richie asked. “Eddie? Why are they evidence?” Nothing made any _sense._ It was frustrating and terrifying because he couldn’t remember and it felt as if his mind kept dropping his train of thought as he tried to piece things together.

“I said I’d get your old ones from the house,” Eddie answered, crying even harder as he dodged the question just like all the doctors did. “Baby, I’m gonna get Steve so he can see you for a little bit. Okay? I need to calm down and—and you can’t get worked up. I’ll be back. I’ll be back, I promise.”

“Eddie, don’t—don’t go. Eds?” Richie tried to reach for him with his good hand, but Eddie had already pulled away and his blurry figure was slipping out the door and gone.

Eddie had left him...

It hurt worse than his head.

( ) ( ) ( )

Sometime after he’d cried himself dizzy in that hideous green waiting room, Eddie realized that he’d never called himself off work. The buzzing he’d felt from his phone had been his boss and two of this coworkers trying to call him and text him. One even sent him an email “on the off chance you lost your phone.” He only realized this after seeing that his boss had called Richie’s phone and left a voicemail—because Richie was Eddie’s emergency contact and they thought something had happened to him.

Trying not to start crying all over again while explaining to his boss over a phone call that it wasn’t him but his partner who was injured felt nearly impossible. Texting the information had him feeling like it was a lie. So he’d placed the call and broke down halfway through his second sentence. 

The hurt look that had been on Richie’s face when Eddie fled his hospital room haunted him the entire call. 

Eddie could’ve felt no worse if he had slapped his lover across the mouth. Richie was more coherent than Eddie had been prepared for, and lying to him felt so _wrong._ It was so, so obvious his partner was scared and dodging his questions only made it all worse. But Eddie had to trust the doctors. If they said hearing about what really happened was too much for him, then it was too much for him. Eddie didn’t want to be the reason Richie got hurt in the first place _and_ the reason he started to get worse instead of better.

When Steve came back to the waiting room, his face was grave and he kept wringing his hands nervously as he moved to stand before Eddie’s chair. 

“Well, he’s not happy,” Steve said. He looked upset enough that Eddie bit back the cruel, ‘no...you think?’ which threatened to spill past his lips. 

“No?” Eddie said, leaving it at that.

“He’s… He’s confused again. At first he knew who I was and why I was here, and then...nothing. Like… Like a switch turned off and he keeps asking for you. He’s asking what room you’re in because he thinks you were in the ‘accident’ with him.” He added the air quotes and stared past Eddie at the wall as he said it. “He doesn’t remember talking to you. He got really mad when I told him he did and then the nurse came and—”

“You’re not supposed to argue with him,” Eddie said, finding comfort in the spark of rage that flared in his chest. Anger, he thought, was a lot more productive than sadness. “Jesus Christ, he has a fucking _brain_ injury! Of course he’s confused! Of course he doesn’t remember!”

Steve stammered out his apologies, but Eddie ignored them—he said something else that was insensitive and harsh, then stormed back through the wooden door into the stark-white corridors, making his way back to Richie’s room.

He found his partner sitting upright holding his head in his hands, whimpering in pain.

“Rich? You okay?” Eddie asked, feeling that the question was stupid. The anger and hatred he’d felt for Steve the moment before now transferred to himself. 

“Eds?” Richie mumbled, tilting his head up a bit without letting go of it. 

“Yeah, it’s me.” Eddie hurried to the bedside and sat down on the mattress next to Richie, placing a hand gently on Richie’s knee in an attempt to soothe him. “Do you need me to call a doctor?”

“I need you to get me _out_ of here,” Richie whined. His eyes were so watery and bloodshot—so many vessels burst in his right eye that the entire bottom half was just blood red. 

“I will. I will, baby. You just need to get some rest first. Can you lay back down for me?”

“No! No—I need… I want…” He didn’t seem to know what he wanted. All he did was make a frustrated noise and let his hands drop down into his lap with a sigh. 

“Do you want some water? I could get you some...some ice chips maybe.” One of Richie’s ten thousand irritating habits was to chew on ice cubes. Ice chips would probably help give him something to do to take his mind off of, well, itself. 

Richie said yes to both of those things and it only took a moment for Eddie to find a nurse who was able to get them. She brought two cups of water and one cup of ice, placing one on the table next to Eddie with a small pile of napkins. She had cautioned him in the hallway that Richie’s coordination might not be the best—either from the injury or the meds or both—and asked that he let the staff know if he had any trouble swallowing. 

As soon as she was gone, Richie was shaking ice chips into his mouth and crunching them. He spilled a few down his chest that he brushed away himself on the second or third try, but didn’t seem to notice or care that his hand didn’t quite go where he wanted it to. He just crushed up the ice that was in his mouth and took in more. Eddie never thought the sound of his boyfriend’s teeth grinding bits of ice would make him so happy. 

“They told me they put holes in my head,” Richie said, looking down at his cup of ice.

“Yeah?” Eddie asked, even though he knew already. Richie said it with such little emotion, like he was reciting some tidbit of information he’d heard on the news. It was the same tone he sometimes used when setting up a joke and Eddie’s heart ached for it.

“What a weird thing to do to somebody.” Followed by more crunching. 

“Well, they had to get the pressure to go down, baby.” Eddie shifted around uncomfortably in his chair, then gave up and moved to sit next to Richie on the bed.

His partner looked up at him and blinked a few times, like he didn’t understand what was happening, then smiled and shook more ice into his mouth—and onto his chest. Eddie brushed the little slivers away for Richie before they could melt, then let his hand linger there over his heart. Richie looked down at his hand, then tried to grab it with his own, only to miss by an inch or so.

“My body drives like it’s drunk,” Richie said, before huffing the smallest of laughs. It had Eddie almost in tears. 

“It’ll get better,” Eddie said. He took one of Richie’s hands into his own and held it, stroking his fingers and the tendons leading back to his wrist. Some of his fingertips and knuckles were bandaged, and all of his fingernails had been cleaned up to get the dried blood out from under them. 

“I hope so… Otherwise you’re going to kill me ‘cause there’s no way in hell my piss is making it into the toilet like this. Our bathroom floor is about to get power washed.” And for a moment, his eyes were clear and brilliant as he crunched more ice and tried to catch Eddie’s reaction to his disgusting joke—too blind to actually see it.

“Jokes on you, asshole, because you’ll be the one cleaning it up,” Eddie said, squeezing Richie’s hand a little tighter. 

“In that case I’ll just piss in the shower. Harder to miss.”

“You absolutely will not!” Eddie said, forgetting to keep his voice down and cringing as his volume made Richie wince.

“Hey… Eds?” Richie asked, looking at the hand Eddie was holding. 

“Hm?”

“Am I… Am I staying here tonight?” He asked it so sadly, like he already knew the answer.

“Yeah, but I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying right here with you.” He reached up with his free hand to touch Richie’s cheek, brushing his thumb over one of the few unblemished patches of skin he had on the left side of his face. 

“How’m I going to fuck the nurses with you around cock blocking?” Richie asked. 

“I’m here for their protection,” Eddie answered, shaking his head. 

Richie crunched more ice, then dropped the empty cup when he went to set it aside by his full cup of water. Moments later, without any word or notice, he was nestled back against his pillow and fast asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: blood, flashbacks (non-graphic)

Leaving Richie at the hospital was the hardest thing Eddie had ever had to do. Harder than facing down a demonic clown, harder than confronting his mother, harder than recovering from four different surgeries and then serving divorce papers to his wife. It was a hell of a lot harder than hiding his infidelity from said wife, and hiding the fact that it was with another man…

Eddie stopped four or five times just on his way out of the hospital lobby alone. He’d been at the hospital for three (or was it four?) days, washing himself up with hand soap in the sink of Richie’s hospital bathroom. He was filthy and needed a change of clothes and Richie needed a bunch of things...all good reasons to leave, but…

But Eddie was afraid Richie wouldn’t be okay without him. He tended to get agitated with strangers—even some of the regular nursing staff were strangers to him sometimes. He forgot names and faces when he first woke up and when he was about to fall asleep, which was always at the drop of a hat. It was because of his agitation and confusion, and the fact that he seemed to find comfort in Eddie’s presence, that the doctors allowed Eddie to stay in the room whenever he had another visitor. 

Which was a very good thing, because Richie didn’t recognize Ben when the Losers’ Club started showing up. 

“Ben? Ben like...like from Derry Ben? No way. No _way!”_ He remembered, kind of, about their battle with Pennywise, but seemed to have forgotten that Ben had lost the weight. 

Ben teased him about it a little, saying, “What? I wasn’t memorable enough for you?”

To which Richie answered, “I mean… Shit, you’re hot, but you weren’t the one I was looking at. Obviously.” He’d smiled at Eddie then, his usual lopsided and dopey grin, all proud of himself for getting the guy he wanted. And then looked back at Ben to say, “There’s no way you’re Ben. _No way.”_

He recognized Mike and remembered him moving to Florida, which was a good sign. He thought Bill was married to Beverly which was an interesting conundrum that Eddie had yet to clarify, but otherwise he did okay when his friends sat with him. 

Bill was with him now, sitting at his side while Eddie worked up the courage to go home...he needed to get some things. He needed to shower and…

He was supposed to get some sleep, but Eddie didn’t think that would be possible. He’d gotten used to sleeping with Richie pressed up at his side, snoring away. After what happened, he didn’t think he would ever be able to sleep without Richie next to him ever again. 

At every red light and stop sign, in every traffic jam between the hospital and their house, Eddie told himself he needed to turn around and go back. Or maybe he should call Bill and make sure Richie was okay—make sure he still took the medicine the nurses brought without arguing. It had only been a couple of days and it was important he stay up on his meds. Especially the PEP medications because _fuck_ if his partner caught AIDS from some dirty needle in that alleyway, Eddie was going to burn this whole city down. For the time being, the blue pills stoked Richie’s humor—because he equated them to Viagra and thought that was just _hilarious._ The fact that he didn’t know what they were or why he was taking them in the first place made Eddie’s stomach churn. Richie wouldn’t find them nearly so funny if he knew the truth…

But, after three or four days, he still didn’t remember what happened. Car crash? A slip and fall? There was a moment in the middle of the night that he woke up and thought they were still in Derry. He couldn’t understand why Eddie wasn’t in his own hospital room—then began to panic because he thought Eddie was a ghost.

Fuck it all, Eddie hated that he needed to go home. What if he got upset like that again with only Bill there to help? Would Bill know the right things to say? Would _Bill_ know how to calm him down?

What if he remembered everything and Eddie wasn’t there to comfort him and promise him that it didn’t change anything between them!?

Eddie had entirely forgotten that his home was a bloodbath—a crime scene. Police had been in and out, documenting the blood spatters, taking the clothes Richie had worn that night as evidence. Seeing it now, the blood dried brown and black, made his stomach flip and he stumbled to the kitchen sink in order to vomit—water, only. Because he hadn’t eaten in days. He gripped the sink so hard his wrists shook with strain, his knuckles white as his fingernails scraped helplessly at the stainless steel. 

He felt so lightheaded, so exhausted. It was as if his brain was finally acknowledging the strain put on his body—the fatigue he didn’t think he’d ever fully recover from overwhelming him all at once.

They’d have to get new carpeting on the stairs. A new rug coming in from the garage… Eddie wished he could just hire someone to come in and replace their entire upstairs bathroom. It would take hours to scrub the blood out of the grout between the tiles.

Richie’s blood… Richie’s blood, everywhere, because he’d come home hurt and Eddie wasn’t awake to help him. 

It needed done and Eddie couldn’t move to do it. He didn’t want to call anyone in in fear they would leak the condition of Richie’s house to the media. Eddie, again, felt so helpless—so alone. Their home, their _beautiful_ home, was now tainted. He could scrub out the blood, but he’d see it forever. He’d remember that awful morning _forever._

Eddie collapsed against the sink and cried. He could be weak here, he told himself. Richie wasn’t here to see him fall apart under the crushing weight of everything that happened, under the guilt of being the one responsible. _If he’d just fucking kissed him!_ If Eddie had just kissed him when he wanted it, none of this would’ve had to happen. Why didn’t he just kiss his fucking mouth? So what if he caught Richie’s cold? So what if there was still a bit of snot on his lips from sneezing all over himself? So fucking what… Eddie would take it, he would rather have taken that over all this _blood._

He was still sitting on the padded kitchen mat by their sink when a sharp knock came from the front door. Eddie was tempted to just scream at whoever it was to go the fuck away, convinced it was a nosy neighbor or a cop or the press. Then the knock came again and Eddie realized he didn’t have a voice left to scream. His throat ached from sobbing and though he took a hit from his inhaler, it didn’t help him breathe any easier as he got shakily to his feet and went to the door. 

Outside, he saw through the peephole, were Ben and Beverly and Mike. They were all fidgeting uncomfortably in the hot sun, shifting from foot to foot as Ben knocked a third time.

“Eddie?” He called this time. “It’s just me—it’s us. Can we come in?”

Eddie pulled back from the door, turning his head to look at the entrance from their garage and the trail of blood leading through the first floor of his house. They didn’t need to see this. It felt like an invasion—it felt like he was giving away Richie’s secrets.

“Eddie?” Beverly this time. “We came to… We came to help, Eddie.” She said it like she already knew there was a mess inside. Maybe she did. His friends weren’t idiots. He’d told them Richie had been attacked and drove himself home in that condition. 

Eddie found himself unlocking the door and stepping back just enough to let them in.

“It’s… It’s really bad,” he said, rubbing at his face which probably looked as messed up as the floor. Beverly hugged him as she moved to come into the house, rubbing his back as he struggled to find the coordination to hug her in return. 

“Wouldn’t be the first time the three of us have cleaned up a little blood, right?” Ben said, trying to offer a smile though his face was pale after seeing the stains in question leading across the floor. 

“I’ve seen my fair share,” Mike offered, patting Eddie’s shoulder as Beverly let him go.

“Okay, but can you guys not leave my door open, please? There’s bugs the size of footballs out here.” Eddie used it as an excuse to put distance between himself and his friends and pushed the door shut, locking it. 

Beverly had started making her way toward the garage and Eddie got between her and the door leading out to it. 

“I’ll take care of the car,” he said, not even sure why he was trying to hide it. There was probably as much blood in the garage as there was in the bathroom. It seemed as though Richie had crawled out of his car, threw up on it and then laid by the steps leading up into the house for a while. 

Gathering strength, Eddie thought. He’d needed a hospital and yet he’d laid there on the hard concrete for who knew how long...hurting and afraid. Confused...

He didn’t want his friends to know that the garage door had opened Richie had knocked the mirror off his car all without Eddie waking up because he’d popped his sleeping pills. 

“We can handle it, Ed,” Ben said, fixing him with a solemn look. “Let us do this for you. Just tell us where you keep the cleaning stuff and we’ll take care of it. You need to get back to Richie.”

Eddie couldn’t look at them without feeling more tears in his eyes. He was so ashamed that this had all fallen onto their shoulders, and so _guilty_ that it was him they pitied. 

“It’s really bad, guys,” Eddie said tearfully, knowing it wouldn’t dissuade them.

“It can’t be worse than my bathroom back in Derry,” Beverly said. “Do you remember?”

He did remember. He remembered a bathroom covered floor to ceiling in blood—fake, imaginary, child-only blood. Not Richie’s blood. It hadn’t been the blood of one of their friends. 

“Show us where you keep the cleaners, Ed,” Ben said. “We’ve got this.” 

He led them to the little closet off the kitchen, showing them the mop and the Swiffer and the carpet scrubbers—both the hand-held and the full-size model as well as the hand brush he used to scrub out mud when Richie was careless and left his shoes on. (He’d yelled at Richie for that before. Actually raised his voice and yelled at him for tracking mud… God, he’d do anything to take that back now.) He had just enough gloves for each of his friends to have a pair, and once they’d gathered what they thought they’d need for their first trip upstairs, he led them to the bathroom.

Beverly’s hands were immediately over her mouth, the bucket she’d been carrying crashing onto the floor. 

“He took a fucking shower!? Oh, what the hell,” Ben said, sinking down onto his haunches and staring at the mess. 

“We’ll take care of this, Eddie,” Mike said, his voice quiet and calm as he assessed the room. “You go and take care of what you need to.”

Reluctantly, he did as he was told, apologizing as he backed away toward his and Richie’s bedroom. There was a little blood on the carpet in here, too, he realized. Something he hadn’t seen before in the early morning light. Not a lot, but enough… 

Fuck it. He was buying new carpeting with the joint account. He couldn’t afford it on his own and he needed this gone. He’d get new tile, new carpet...whatever. He just wanted every reminder of that awful morning _gone._

Eddie showered, trying to be quick because he knew his friends needed the water pressure to clean, then shaved his haggard face. His hands were shaking and he was so tired that he’d nicked his skin two or three times on the same cheek. Just what he needed—open wounds before going back to the germ-den. He dressed in fresh jeans and one of Richie’s long-sleeved shirts and a hoodie—also Richie’s. The hoodie was definitely not washed despite hanging in the closet and Eddie simultaneously cringed at its smell and clutched the fabric closer to his face before putting it on. 

He sat down on Richie’s side of the bed, holding the hood of the sweater around to bury his nose in it while staring at the balcony—out at the hills and the interstate. In his mind, all he could see was Richie standing there that morning, smoking his cigarette. Chain smoking the whole pack with six skull fractures and severe swelling in his brain—pumping his lungs full of carcinogens and his brain full of chemicals it didn’t need. 

What had he been doing out there? Eddie knew it was pointless to wonder. Richie’s brain hadn’t been functioning properly at all. Still, he wanted to know. Why did he stand out there instead of shaking Eddie awake and demanding the help he needed? Why did he stand outside and smoke? What had he been looking at? Did he think Eddie was going to be mad at him? Was that why the first thing he’d said was, “I fucked up”? 

Eddie forced himself to give up the train of thought, knowing he’d sit there all afternoon if he let himself. Richie needed his glasses—and needed to have new ones ordered. And he needed his own underwear and socks. Maybe some fresh pillows that didn’t have sick people’s germs on them. Maybe the soft blanket he had tucked up under his pillow on his side of the bed. 

Slowly, Eddie started to fill a suitcase with different things as if he were getting ready for a stay at the hotel. He got Richie’s travel bag and all his toiletries, all of his own toiletries, and then some extras. He got Richie’s spare glasses, his socks—more and more things until the suitcase would barely close.

Eddie checked his phone, saw an incoming text from Bill that asked how he was and assured him Richie was calm and asleep. “Take your time,” was his final text. Eddie thanked him and said he’d be back soon. 

Outside his bedroom, his friends were busily cleaning up the shower. They had finished cleaning up the toilet and the bloodied floor tiles and while Mike cleaned the glass walls of the shower, Ben and Bev were tag-teaming the carpet on the stairs. The carpet leading into the bathroom was sopping wet and still glistening with a few bubbles of soap, but Eddie couldn’t see any trace of the blood spatters. He felt a small bit of relief pool in his chest at the sight. Maybe they wouldn’t need to buy new carpeting. Maybe… Maybe it would be okay. 

“All ready to go?” Beverly asked, moving out of his way as he carried the suitcase down the steps. 

“I think so. I still need to order his glasses and I think I’m just going to take my laptop to the hospital. I can work from there a little bit.”

“You need to focus on you right now. Not work,” Beverly said. She followed him downstairs to his home office, looking like a disappointed mother.

“Well, I’m not like you and Bill. I can’t just fall off the radar whenever it suits me. I’ll lose my job. You think I want to make Richie have to support me? Have him pay my alimony?”

“No, but they have to understand that—”

“He’s not my spouse. There’s not even approved PTO for this. I’m using up all of my sick time _and_ my vacation days. Not that Richie and I are going anywhere now anyway, but—fuck! I need to cancel our plane tickets for...for Hawaii and cancel the hotel… Fuck! _Fuck!”_ There was so much stuff he needed to do—so many things he didn’t have the _strength_ to do but had to anyway.

“Eddie, it’s going to be okay. If you need help—”

“I don’t want to take anyone’s money! I just… I just need to order his glasses. I need to order these.” He had started up his laptop and was struggling to remember his password. One thing at a time. He would make a To Do list when he was back the hospital, the next time Richie was asleep, and start checking things off one by one. 

“I’ll just...get back to work on the stairs,” Beverly said, backing out of the room and leaving Eddie on his own to contemplate how much of an ass he was. She’d come here to help. Why was he snapping at her? Why was he such a selfish prick?

After his third or forth try, Eddie managed to get logged in to his laptop and set to ordering Richie’s new lenses and frames. He had the prescription saved to their account on the eyeglass company’s website and ordered from the website’s saved searches. It billed Richie’s account automatically and Eddie felt guilty for it. He should be the one to pay, not Richie.

It was his fault…

All his fault.

The words repeated over and over as he drove back to the hospital, like a sick mantra being chanted—like a scratched record. 

All his fault…

( ) ( ) ( )

Life in the hospital was not glamorous or fun. Not that Richie really thought it would be. His head hurt every second of every day, sometimes so much he cried—unable to hold back tears no matter how much he wanted to. Sometimes he was so fucking bored that he cried. It seemed like his face had two modes—normal and leaking. If his brain said it was time to cry, he cried. It was really embarrassing and whenever his face started leaking around Eddie, it made his partner cry, too.

Richie tried to explain to him that he wasn’t crying because he was in _that much_ pain or because he was _that_ upset, but it was...hard to describe. Sometimes he could feel the sentence he wanted to say forming in his head, and then it just wouldn’t come out. Or would come out scrambled. Sometimes backwards or inverted. 

When his speech got really bad, that was when he actually _wanted_ to cry. His career, his whole _life,_ centered around communication—skillful communication. It felt like half his vocabulary and concept of grammar had just leaked out of his head. It was scary and depressing, and no matter how many times Eddie reassured him that it would all get better in time, it frightened him. 

The longer he sat in the hospital with nothing to do besides pick at his bandages and stare at the walls between nurse visits and minimal PT, the more he realized the things that were wrong with him. 

His body still moved sluggishly and with little coordination. He’d thought it was just the grogginess left over from _having holes drilled in his head,_ but the issues remained days afterward. He was scared it was permanent. Even having his new glasses delivered to him didn’t help. 

His vision had gotten worse, too, and even his newly made glasses didn’t seem as effective as they had been. Things still seemed blurry, even if they weren’t that far away. 

He had to have help getting up to go to the bathroom. Had to have help getting washed. He needed help to do literally everything and though he was thankful for the nurses and for Eddie, he hated it. He hated being so...dependent. He just wanted to be at home and be able to walk three feet to the toilet without assistance. He wasn’t in his eighties. He wasn’t a toddler. He was fed up with this _bullshit..._ And yet there was nothing he could do about it besides wait to get “better.”

God, was he thankful for Eddie, though. He hardly ever left the hospital. He worked from his laptop in the chair by the window, typing away and stepping out to make calls before coming back with water or healthy “snacks” a few minutes later. He had brought Richie pillows from home and a blanket even though the hospital staff asked him politely not to—that it was a risk to other patients to bring in too many things from home. 

“It’s not like we’ve got roaches. Do you know who he is!?” Eddie had tantrumed, voice filling up the space outside Richie’s door one night. Clearly someone didn’t know who _Eddie_ was and had tried to argue. Bad idea, buddy, Richie thought. Bad idea. Those years in New York had done nothing but heighten the rage and fight in Eddie’s spirit.

So Richie ended up with his favorite throw blanket and pillows, sweat pants he was finally allowed to wear even though it took help to get them on. He had to wear the hospital gown still, but had managed to pull Hawaiian shirts over them without getting in too much trouble with the nurses.

His favorite, a lady named Armani who spoke as if she were from the deep south though she claimed to be “San Diego born and raised,” had laughed the first time she saw one of his blue and green Hawaiian shirts from home. “Oh, Lord help you, honey, if you in here thinking this is a vacation!” She had a laugh that was infectious and Richie enjoyed it any time he was able to concentrate enough to tell her a joke and get her going. 

She worked nights, which was a good thing because Richie was usually alert most of the night. Daytime was just too… What? Busy? Noisy? There was a lot going on outside his room and it made him tired just to hear it all. Daytime was when he had PT and was made to take weird, repetitive tests. They asked him what day it was and other odd bits of trivia. He felt like he got the answers right every time, he knew the president wasn’t fucking JFK, that was for sure. He knew the year, he knew where he was, he knew who he was and what he did for a living...used to do for a living, anyway. 

Steve came by now and then but never wanted to talk about work. The stand-up tour that had been in the works was no doubt canceled now. No one would pay money to see him fall over himself trying to stand upright or forget what he was doing mid-sentence, every sentence. No one would want to see his bald, fucking scarred up head, that was for sure.

Richie couldn’t wait until his head at least looked better, even if it didn’t feel better. He knew he wasn’t much to look at anyway, but he hadn’t been prepared to lose all his hair. His curly hair and thick glasses were his trademark. He took pride in the fact that he was forty with very few gray hairs to go around… Now he bet it’d all grow back white or some shit. Turn him into an Albert Einstein-looking motherfucker.

And Eddie used to like running his fingers through Richie’s hair after it was washed…

Would it still be the same now or would Eddie be afraid to touch him? Either because of injuries or because he was gross from marinating in hospital bacteria for days on end?

Richie didn’t know… He just didn’t know so many things. It made him frustrated and sad and just miserable. He wanted to go home, not just have nice things from his house brought to him. He liked having Eddie sleep all pushed up into his side on the narrow hospital bed, but he would rather have slept in their own bed with room to wiggle. 

He would like to be able to sleep on his side, or just all the way back and flat—not propped up. 

Richie really fucking regretted driving his car all fucked up. 

As it was, nearly two weeks had passed and Richie felt he was no closer to going home than day one. 

Today, though, everyone was acting different. They’d had the same nervous energy they did when they were about to start adding questions to the rotation of quizzes or ask him to walk a little further during PT. He wanted to ask what was up, but Eddie was hurriedly typing on his laptop and scowling at the screen. He’d been angry since a nurse had pulled him into the hallway to talk that morning.

Richie welcomed whatever they were about to throw at him. Anything was better than staring at the wall going out of his mind. He didn’t care much for TV since he had to keep the volume so low he could hardly hear it and it was too far across the room for him to read the subtitles.

Reading—now that was a fucking _challenge._ He hadn’t been dyslexic before but now his mind seemed to turn sentences inside out for fun. He hardly even looked at his phone once it had been given back to him because, one, he couldn’t fucking see the screen, and two, he couldn’t focus long enough to read one of Bev’s Facebook posts. He saved reading for when the nurses and doctors quizzed him; otherwise, it could fuck right off.

So, when the nurse knocked on his door and stepped into the room, Richie was excited for whatever news it was she had. Eddie, however, looked grave—his expression bordering on devastated and angry. Like he was about to scream in rage and sob in heartbreak at the same time. 

Were they about to tell Richie he was going to die? Going to jail?

“Mr. Tozier, how are you feeling this morning?” She asked. It was Cindy, who was nice but not his favorite, smiling at him like she didn’t see the look Eddie gave her.

“Fine. Bored,” he added.

Cindy offered him a tight-lipped smile that immediately made him anxious. It was an expression that said, “You won’t be for long,” and in a bad way.

“Well, we have a couple men here who’d like to speak with you. If you’re feeling up for it.” She had no clipboard to hide behind or tray of food, so she just awkwardly squeezed her hand on the door handle while looking between Richie and Eddie. 

“I mean… Sure. Yeah, that’s fine.” He looked at Eddie whose expression hadn’t changed, even when Eddie looked at _him._ Eddie was scowling at _him._

Did he somehow make Eddie mad at him? 

Quickly, Richie thought of anything else because he didn’t want to start crying if he thought about it too long. 

“I’ll be back in just a moment then,” Cindy said, leaving the room and shutting the door gently behind her.

“Wonder who it—”

“It’s the cops, Rich,” Eddie said, closing his laptop. 

“The cops? Why? I thought… I thought Steve took care of everything from the accident,” Richie said.

“Steve doesn’t take care of _shit._ Okay? _I_ take care of shit.” Eddie stared at his closed laptop, fuming. It made Richie’s chest tight and he didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know why Eddie was mad or if he was mad at _him._ He felt like he’d said the wrong thing and that Eddie was going to grab his laptop and leave. And then Eddie had buried his face in his hands and scrubbed at his eyes. “Sorry. Baby, I’m sorry. I’m… I’m sorry. Sorry. Fuck!”

“Eddie?” Richie said, unhelpfully. Saying his name was probably stressing him out worse, but seeing him so upset was scary. If Eddie didn’t want him to talk to the cops then he wouldn’t. He didn’t understand why he needed to...unless he really was going to jail and they just hadn’t told him because they didn’t want to stress him out.

Fuck, being lied to was way more stressful than just knowing ahead of time that these past couple of weeks were the last he was going to spend with Eddie before serving ten years in jail or something. Okay, he probably wouldn’t get ten but he’d been given a slap on the wrist for his last, and first, DUI in California and he hadn’t been so drunk he wrecked then. 

Eddie didn’t answer him, and the next thing Richie knew, two officers were sitting down in chairs near his bed. Richie looked to Eddie. Eddie stared back at him with his elbows propped up on his knees and his fingers covering his mouth, like he was holding back a scream. 

“Mr. Tozier, how are you?” The first officer asked. He was a middle-aged Black man and reminded Richie of a television New York cop. The second was a young man, Hispanic, maybe, with a mustache Richie would be making fun of for weeks to come—if he could remember it. He tried to commit it to memory because it was just so...patchy and bad. It looked like it belonged on Richie’s fucked up scalp. 

“Fine… Thought I’d be seeing you guys a lot sooner. But I guess you have bigger fish to fry. I’m not much of a flight risk.” 

The officers laughed politely, then turned to look at Eddie, then each other. The New York-looking cop then said, “Mr. Tozier, we’re not here to arrest you. We just have some questions we’d like to ask.”

For real? Richie turned his head to check Eddie’s expression only to find his boyfriend covering his face with his head hung low. What could they have to say that was so awful it made Eddie this upset?

“Your doctors have filled us in on your condition and if at any time you start to feel overwhelmed or uncomfortable, you just let us know. Your health is what’s important right now. All the rest can wait. Do you understand?” 

“I… I think so,” Richie said, trying to look to Eddie for more support, only to find his partner in the same position as before. 

The officers introduced themselves. Officer Simmons, the NYC cop, and Officer Carrara, the young one with the bad mustache. Richie tried to remember this, but he’d already forgotten NYC a moment or two later. 

They started off by asking more about how he was _feeling,_ really easing him into it the way his nurses did before it was quiz time. Then the questions got a little harder. What was the last thing he remembered before the hospital? 

Cigarettes, he said. He told them that he remembered buying cigarettes. Did he know from where? Kind of… 

They showed him a picture of a receipt that he had to struggle to look at. It was his receipt from when he bought the pack of Marlboro’s, but he didn’t recognize the store name or the address. 

“It’s across from the Dolphin,” Eddie said, head still in his hands—face still facing the ground. “Do you remember going to the Dolphin, Richie?” He asked, sounding pained. 

The Dolphin? Oh!

“The dive bar? Yeah! I go there all the time. Is this that place across from it?”

“Yes,” NYCop said, nodding. “That’s right. Do you remember anything, anything at all, from around the time you bought the cigarettes? It says the time of purchase was a little after six p.m.”

Richie thought, but he was mentally stuck on the fact that he’d bought cigarettes in the first place… Why couldn’t he remember? He felt like he’d remembered before… He quit smoking months ago—why had he gone out and gotten cigarettes?

“I… I don’t know. Eddie?” Richie looked to his partner, wanting any insight into what had happened that Eddie could offer him. 

“It’s alright if you don’t remember. Please don’t push yourself, Mr. Tozier,” Officer Mustache said. His words were anything but reassuring.

“I just… I-I quit smoking. I don’t know why I got cigarettes. I don’t… I’m—I’m sorry, Eddie. I don’t know why I did that, but I’m sorry!” He felt the tears rush him and spill over, humiliating him the very instant he blinked and they tumbled down his cheeks. How pathetic did he look? Crying over fucking cigarettes in front of two cops. 

For the moment, it all seemed to make sense. Eddie was upset at him because he’d bought cigarettes after promising he wouldn’t. He bought cigarettes when he shouldn’t, got drunk at the Dolphin, then crashed his car and made Eddie a horrible mess he now had to clean up.

“Richie, it’s okay—it’s okay! Don’t worry. It’s fine.” Eddie moved away from his chair and came to sit next to Richie on the bed, putting a hand on his knee and squeezing it gently. “We had a fight that day. You were stressed out. I’m not mad.” He comforted him as if they didn’t have the police staring at them. 

“Perhaps… Perhaps we ought to come back at another time,” NYCop said.

“This happens sometimes,” Eddie said, not even looking at the man. His attention was on Richie, handing him a tissue so he could blow his nose and get the offending tears off his face. “He’s alright. Unless you want a break. Do you need a break, Richie?” Eddie asked, his voice emotionless—a mask to cover whatever he was actually feeling. Probably exhaustion and annoyance at having to deal with his emotional wreck of a partner. Poor Eddie hadn’t signed up for this shit. 

He hated snot and spit—all the things covering Richie’s face. Tears were probably no different. To Eddie, Richie was probably just this gross blob of germs and slime. 

These thoughts were not helping his leaking face…

“Mr. Tozier...if I may, do you remember drinking at the Dolphin that night?” NYCop asked. 

“I.. I don’t know. It’s…” Richie sniffled and tried to focus. 

Cigarettes. Did he even remember buying them? He felt like he should… 

He didn’t remember having a fight either, though. He was so _confused._

“Maybe another time,” Eddie said, still squeezing Richie’s knee. 

“No—No, I can try. I can try harder,” Richie said, feeling so useless. Had he witnessed a crime at the bar? Was that why they were asking?

“There’s no need to push yourself. Your health is of the utmost importance, Mr. Tozier,” Officer Mustache said.

“I… I guess I just—I don’t know what you _need._ I drove drunk. Why am I not being arrested?”

“Because you _didn’t,_ Richie,” Eddie said, his voice rough as if he’d just let out a heavy breath. 

“I didn’t?” Richie asked. Then how the fuck did he bust his head? 

Maybe someone just hit his car and he’d been sober—but then why did they want to know where he’d been? Why were his old glasses evidence? Why did they care about his cigarettes!?

Fuck, Richie was crying again.

“Perhaps another time,” one of the cops said, Richie could no longer distinguish their voices as he covered his face in his hands to hide how gross he was being from Eddie. Sobs were wracking his shoulders and he couldn’t stop. He just _couldn’t_ stop. He was scared and upset and so _confused._ Nothing made any sense.

“I’ll talk to him,” Eddie said, rubbing Richie’s back. His voice, Richie knew—his voice, he understood. It was his favorite sound. Eddie talked to the officers a bit and they dismissed themselves from the room. 

“Well, I fucked that up, huh?” Richie said, trying to joke but only managing to cry more. 

“No, baby,” Eddie said, tipping his head against Richie’s shoulder even though his face was gross and covered and snot. “I told them it was too soon. They shouldn’t have been here in the first place. I _told_ them.”

“What did I do, Eds? What the fuck did I do that was so awful no one wants to tell me?” Richie asked, whimpering. 

“Nothing, honey. You didn’t do _anything_ wrong. You… You were hurt, baby.” Eddie wrapped his arms around him, hugging him close even though he was a blob of tears and snot. “Someone _hurt_ you… You were attacked, baby.” Eddie’s voice was trembling and he squeezed Richie a little tighter.

“Attacked?” Richie asked, getting his clumsy arms to close around Eddie in a hug. 

Attacked? Like mugged? Like robbed at gunpoint or tackled by a rabid fan? That would explain why his glasses were evidence!

A piece of the puzzle fell into place and Richie thought that maybe he _did_ remember getting cigarettes. 

“We had a fight?” Richie asked, the faint shimmer of a memory forming in his aching head as his tears slowed down from sobs to little hitched breaths. 

They fought and Eddie said he was going to leave…

Richie held Eddie a little tighter, sniffling. Eddie wanted to leave him and now here he was—stuck. 

“A stupid fight,” Eddie whispered. “All my fault. I’m so sorry, Richie. I’m sorry. I should’ve—I should’ve just kissed you. I don’t know why I’m such a fucking asshole. I love you—I didn’t mean for this to happen to you.” Eddie was crying about as hard as Richie, nuzzling into his shoulder.

It reminded Richie, in a bright and vibrant flash, of one of their scenes. It was after a punishment and Eddie had buried his face in Richie’s neck to cry it out once everything was over. He needed that, sometimes. To just cry it out while Richie told him everything was okay, all was forgiven—that he’d been good, that they were okay. 

It was hard to hold Eddie like that now. It was hard to say the right things because his tongue might get twisted and slurring his words now would just make Eddie shush him and tell him to rest. He felt so useless.

Fuck, none of this was helping his fucking face dry up. 

“Richie, there’s...there’s one more thing I need to tell you. I think… I think you need to know. You _deserve_ to know what happened and those cops won’t stop coming back until you remember. The doctors think hearing it might help jog your memory. But…” Eddie had pulled back from him and was wiping at his cheeks with the heels of his hands. He wouldn’t look at Richie. 

Something more he needed to know? Richie’s eyes continued leaking tears even though he really didn’t want them to, and he wondered emptily if Eddie was about to say he was having an affair. The fight was because Eddie was having an affair and—

No.

No, Eddie wouldn’t do that to him. Eddie wouldn’t _ever_ do that to him. Eddie hated germs—he hated other people’s bodily germs the most. He only tolerated Richie’s because he loved him and they did fun, freaky things together that brought him a catharsis that was worth the exposure to bacteria. 

And, just as suddenly as he remembered their scenes together, he remembered being in a shower. He remembered the water being blood red, like the elevator at the Overlook Hotel had opened up behind him.

_Eddie hates germs. Eddie would hate him if he tried to go to bed like this. Eddie would be so mad if Richie tried to apologize while all covered in filth and grime. Eddie was going to hate him anyway because—_

Richie remembered a punch to the face. A punch to the gut. He remembered the crunch of bone on brick. He remembered—

“N-No, Eddie,” Richie said, his whole body starting to shake. He flinched away when his partner tried to touch him, moving to lay back on the bed. “I-I’m tired. I want to sleep. Can I go to sleep, Eds? I-I want sleep. I’m… ‘m so tired. Tired, Eddie.” 

No. No, that couldn’t be _real._ Couldn’t be! Couldn’t be! No—No, no, no! 

_“Oh, come on, pretty boy. Don’t make it easy on me.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry you don't get to see more of the Losers in this chapter. We don't see them from Richie's point of view because he doesn't remember they were there. More on that later! Hope you enjoyed this chapter and aren't too disappointed with the pacing!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is very heavy. 
> 
> TW: self-blaming/victim-blaming, flashbacks, reference to rape/non-con (not explicit/graphic)

They’d ruined everything… All the progress Richie made, all of his efforts, vanished the minute Eddie told him what happened. The doctors said he was ready, said his condition was stable enough to handle it. They let the cops in and all they did was get Richie worked up, making him think he was in trouble with the law somehow. Eddie couldn’t take it anymore—he couldn’t sit there and let Richie apologize to him for cigarettes, for not knowing what was happening, when Richie was the one who deserved the apology. 

He told him, and now Richie wouldn’t even talk. Eddie’s loudmouth boyfriend wouldn’t even talk to him. He would pull away whenever Eddie tried to touch him, he’d pick at his skin until he had open sores, he’d cry… But he wouldn’t say anything. Not to Eddie, not to the nurses—not even to his favorites. Visits from the Losers didn’t help him. Nothing did. 

He ate because the nurses told him he’d end up with a feeding tube if he didn’t, and even though his hands were jerky and uncoordinated, he wouldn’t let Eddie help him. 

After two days, the doctor pulled Eddie aside and, in her all-too-polite way, told him it would be for the best if he gave “the patient” some space. They were kicking him out. They were making him leave Richie there by himself. They were making him go back home to his empty house…

They treated him like he was the reason Richie got worse—and fuck… Maybe he was. Maybe Eddie was the reason Richie got hurt and the reason his condition declined. Eddie felt as if everyone in the hospital was jeering at him as he left with his bag of toiletries, his work things, and spare clothes.

Richie cried when Eddie told him he was going home, but didn’t look at him or say anything. He could’ve said he wanted Eddie to stay with him… If he wanted to. Maybe he didn’t want to. Maybe the doctors were right. Richie looked so defeated, sitting there in bed like some big, broken doll. Eddie was scared he’d never come back from this—that _they’d_ never come back from this. Richie hated Eddie so much he didn’t even want touched by him. He had to know by now that it was Eddie’s fault for everything.

Eddie couldn’t see to drive. He sat in his car with his forehead resting on the steering wheel and cried. He wanted Richie to be with him so badly. He wanted him better and safe and out of that germ nest.

What was he going to do if Richie got better and kicked him to the curb? Eddie deserved it—it was his fault for everything—but where the hell would he go? Richie was his home… Not the house, not LA, not the entire fucking state of California—Richie. What was Eddie supposed to do with himself without Richie at his side? 

It took him three hours after leaving the hospital to actually walk through his front door. Their friends had done so well cleaning up the blood, leaving only a few faint stains where the worst of the spatters had been. Eddie hadn’t really taken the chance to look at the place whenever he came home for fresh clothes or to do laundry.

Now, he wandered around it like a ghost. He stared at the glasses in the cupboard for entirely too long, thinking about which ones were Richie’s and which ones were his—and why it had mattered so much back then. Eddie stared at spoons, stared at the dishes that were left in the dishwasher since the night before Richie got hurt. Eddie wandered around holding the mug Richie had been using earlier that day. He’d left it by the lamp in their living room, dirty, with a ring of dried coffee around the bottom. Eddie could almost picture it, himself leaving for work telling Richie he’d be home early, Richie answering with something brief before cursing because his coffee was too fresh and burnt his tongue. 

Their last happy memory...

Richie wasn’t supposed to have caffeine anymore. What was he going to do without his morning coffee? If he was up before noon, he wanted coffee. Richie could drink coffee from dawn until dusk. It was something he loved that had been ripped out of his hands. How many more things had that _monster_ stolen from him? 

Eddie paced the house, staring at chairs and little scratches on furniture. He picked at the worn fabric of their couch, he sat in Richie’s chair and smoothed his hand over the rough and weathered arm. He went up to their room and laid on Richie’s side of the bed, staring out past the balcony at the headlights on the interstate. 

At some point, it was dawn and Eddie didn’t remember sleeping. His phone showed emails from work and texts from his friends. Nothing from the hospital. Nothing from Richie…

He felt like a junkie that had been cut off. His life was missing its focal point and he had no way of grounding himself or finding a new center. 

Eddie called himself off work, not even able to come up with an excuse or an apology. His body hurt and he was exhausted. All he wanted was to sleep… All he wanted was to be laying next to Richie in that uncomfortable hospital bed, making sure his partner was alright.

Why did they have to go and kick him out? What did he do that had Richie so upset with him? Was there even a way for him to fix any of this?

The following day, Eddie went back to the hospital to visit and was turned away. “The patient” had asked to be left alone. Two days without him and Richie was talking? Richie was saying enough to tell the doctors and the staff that he didn’t want to see anyone, not even Eddie?

He must’ve remembered all that had happened and finally realized it was all Eddie’s fault…

The thought sent icy shivers down Eddie’s spine his whole drive...to Richie’s house. It wasn’t _his_ house. He didn’t have _anything_ out here besides his car and Richie. Fuck, but even if Richie hated him, Eddie had to be there for him—he had to help him once he was finally released to go home. Until Richie looked him in the face and told him to get the fuck out, he was stuck with Eddie for the rest of his damned life—because they fucking _loved each other!_ And even if Eddie messed that all up, he wasn’t backing down without a fight—he wasn’t about to just give them up and let the monster steal his only happiness away, too. 

Even so, going back to working normal hours—going back to the office and not going to the hospital right after work—felt a lot like his happiness had been stolen. Half the time, he didn’t even turn the lights on when he got home in the evening. There were nightlights in almost every outlet, lighting up just enough to see the floor so he wouldn’t trip or, mostly, so Richie wouldn’t fall over anything when he got up in the middle of the night to jot down ideas he had or get something to eat.

The house felt haunted. Richie was very much alive, very touchable and real and only about thirty minutes away...but it felt like he was haunting their house. Eddie woke up expecting to see Richie beside him in bed. He turned the corner into their kitchen and expected coffee to already be made and waiting so much he sometimes smelled it. 

But then it was just the stink of bleach and cleaners.

Cleaning. Disinfecting. Scrubbing. It was all Eddie could do to take his mind off of things while he waited for the carpet company to come. Richie’s car was in the shop, being professionally cleaned and detailed, the mirror getting replaced. They said they didn’t know when _or if_ Richie would be able to drive again, but Eddie couldn’t just leave his car in that state while they dicked around waiting to find out.

The bathroom that had been coated in blood was now perfectly pristine. Nothing even needed replaced, but Eddie still felt something crawling under his skin that said it needed new tile anyway. His friends had done such a great job cleaning everything and Eddie appreciated their help and their support so much, even if he left half of their texts on read these days… Eddie just needed to clean more, get more finished and fixed up around the house for whenever Richie was able to come home. Assuming he wanted to come home.

Eddie sure hoped he did.

After another week had passed, he tried going back to the hospital on a Saturday, with flowers...and chocolate hidden in a box under his coat that he was terrified was going to melt before he even got up to the room. The staff acted happy to see him, or maybe they were just fawning over the flowers. Richie liked flowers… He was a fucking sap and if he didn’t like these ones then Eddie would try again with something else. 

He’d like the chocolate though, Eddie hoped. A little bit of chocolate wouldn’t hurt him.

He repeated that to himself over and over as he rode the elevator up to Richie’s floor, feeling like a man concealing a gun as he shuffled down the hall with his glass vase stuffed full of orange lilies, red roses, yellow sunflowers, and a few sprigs of lavender. Let the flowers distract everyone from the contraband chocolate under his jacket. 

Eddie’s heart was pounding in his chest as he reached Richie’s door. What if he hated the flowers? He suddenly worried. What if his head injury made him hate flowers? Or think they smelled awful? 

Swallowing hard, Eddie tapped on the door and waited another second or two before pushing the door open even though Richie hadn’t answered. It was so unusual, he thought, to be this scared of seeing his partner. Deep down, he was afraid Richie would tell him to leave...or just not speak to him like the last time he was here. Richie’s silence, Eddie felt, would be worse than outright rejection.

But, instead of being ignored or asked to leave, Richie’s head slowly turned toward the door as it opened and his eyes seemed to light up—either at the sight of him or of the flowers. 

“Ar—Are those for me?” Richie asked, his voice sticking a bit the first time he tried to talk.

“No, they’re for my mistress. I wanted to run them by you first. See if you thought they looked good or not,” Eddie said, almost breaking down into tears when the joke actually worked to make Richie smile.

Maybe he’d overreacted. Maybe Richie really _had_ just needed some space and some time to rest and _didn’t_ hate his guts.

“Well, she’ll love them,” Richie said, his voice still sounding a bit off. He probably wasn’t speaking much still, which just made Eddie hang on his every syllable.

“Oh. I’ll just leave them here then. If you like ‘em, she definitely won’t. We all know you have no taste.” Eddie said this as he futzed around with the flowers, trying to angle them the right way on the table by Richie’s bed where they would get enough light but not be in the way of the lamp or the remote or the call button Richie had siting there. 

“You’re the one who picked them out. So I guess that means you don’t have good taste either,” Richie said, his words slurring toward the end of his sentence which seemed to disappoint him some. “New medication,” he tacked on. “Makes me so tired I can’t speak straight...see straight? Be straight? I don’t fuckin’ know. I missed you.”

He said it all so rapidly, and yet with no emotion. He was staring at the flowers still, not looking at Eddie who fidgeted a moment before untucking the box of chocolates from his jacket.

“These—These are for you. Just… Just don’t let the nurses see, okay?” Eddie felt like a little kid, sneaking a Valentine to his secret crush in hopes he might win their affection—like he hadn’t already won Richie over enough to earn a place to live in his house, rent free. 

“Shit… Is it Valentine’s Day or something? I didn’t get you anything. Now I look like a dick,” Richie said, smiling as he took the box into his hands. His coordination was better, which Eddie admired after realizing the two of them were still so in tandem that the gifts had them both thinking about Valentine’s Day.

“Yeah, well, I’m not the one in the hospital,” Eddie tacked on, leaning in to kiss Richie’s cheek only to have his partner flinch away. It felt like a jagged knife through his heart, not a sweet, piercing arrow. He pulled away just as quickly and took a step back from the bed. “Sorry. Missed you, too, I guess,” he said, not sure if he should sit down and visit or get the hell out of dodge. 

Richie was staring at the chocolates in his hand, mouth pressed into a hard line and his brow furrowed with confusion or worry. Did he forget they were together? Did...did he forget _them?_

“I… No, I’m sorry,” Richie said, shaking his head slowly and then turning to look at Eddie with pain and sadness. No tears though. That was a good sign. Before, even the smallest thing just made him cry. Eddie had been positive that would be permanent, that it was permanent damage done to his senses and his brain. Maybe it had still just been from the swelling or all the drugs. “Eds, I… I’m sorry for...for how I acted, for—for not...not handling this well. I...” He tensed and brought one of his hands up to his forehead, fingers brushing over the dark fuzz growing on his scalp between the jagged scars. 

“Richie, you don’t need to be sorry.” Eddie moved to sit down, scooting the chair closer to Richie’s bed in order to be nearer without invading his space. “You’ve been through a lot. I just… I just want to help and I...I don’t know if I’m helping or if I’m hurting you.” 

“I… Eddie, I don’t even know how you can stand to _touch_ me. You know what he did—you _know_ what happened. I know they told you… How could you—H-How could you sleep in here, right _next to me,_ after...after what he did to me?”

“What do you mean? I was worried about you! I thought you were going to die… I wanted to be close to you,” Eddie said, staring at Richie who wouldn’t hold eye contact. “Rich… Richie, what do you mean you don’t know how I can stand to touch you? I love you. Nothing changes that. He doesn’t get to take that from you.”

“Yeah, but I’m...” Whatever word he wanted to say, he bit back. “I don’t even know if I caught AIDS or if—if I caught something else. I… I can barely even stand touching my own skin. How can you? You’re the one scared you’re gonna catch hepatitis from the grocery cart—”

“None of that matters to me! None of it, Richie. None of it. Okay? I _love_ you. And you _didn’t_ catch anything because they gave you meds. They gave you all kinds of stuff to make sure you didn’t catch anything. I’m more afraid to touch the buttons in the elevator here than I am to touch you. I _love_ you.” He tried to take Richie’s hand, only for him to pull away again—and then tried to hide it as interest in the chocolate box.

“These are, like, twenty bucks,” he said, flipping the box over to read the back as if Eddie hadn’t said anything at all. 

“Rich...”

“No, they are. I know. I think I got these for you last Valentine’s Day… Or was it...was it when I killed the plants in your garden… We have a garden, right? At the new house?” He was rambling, but his confusion was genuine and Eddie couldn’t justify leaving him out on a limb for the sake of furthering their argument.

“Yeah. Right outside the living room window. Beneath the balcony of our bedroom… And I remember you killing them and I definitely don’t remember getting chocolates for it. So...Valentine’s Day?” Eddie offered, trying one last time to reach for his partner’s hand. 

And was avoided…

He slid his hands back into his own lap and stared at them a bit while Richie pretended to read the packaging on the box. Or maybe he actually was. Eddie couldn’t tell.

When he finally ate one, he moaned like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted—and considering his memory impairment and the quality of the hospital food, it probably was.

“So fucking good. They won’t even let me have pudding cups. It’s like I joined a weight loss program or something. I’ve probably lost twenty pounds _at least_ since they chained me to this bed.”

“No more Taco Bell every night on your way back from the studio,” Eddie offered, watching Richie’s expression as he popped another truffle into his mouth. 

“Taco Bell. Fuck that sounds amazing… You can’t just come in here and tempt me with chocolate, talking about Taco Bell and all the other good shit I can’t have.”

“Well, hurry up and get better and you can eat whatever trash you want.” Eddie said this while staring at his hands again. He wanted to touch Richie, to feel him—make sure he was warm and not freezing to death in this cold room. He wanted to feel the fuzz of his hair that was growing back on his scalp. He wanted to caress his cheek where the bruises had faded away. 

“They’re working on my concentration and stuff. PT’s going well, I think. If my head doctor says I’m good, they might actually let me leave soon.”

“Head doctor? The—The neurosurgeon?” _The bitch who kicked me out of your room?_ Eddie wanted to say, but didn’t.

“No… The shrink they’ve got me meeting with. To make sure I’m ‘okay.’ Don’t know how I’m supposed to be ‘okay,’ but...you know. It’s whatever. What the fuck do I know? I couldn’t even remember our address the other day.” 

“Memory’s still foggy?” Eddie asked, thinking that was an easier thing to comment on than Richie being forced to talk to the hospital psychiatrist. 

“Yeah. I was starting to forget what you looked like. Didn’t think you were ever coming back for me.” Richie offered him a lopsided smile that was anything but genuine. He really thought Eddie had left him here to fend for himself forever…

“They told me it was better if I gave you space for a while,” Eddie said, looking from Richie back down to his hands. “It seems like it helped. I know I can be a bit much sometimes.” 

Richie was silent for a long time, then broke up the deafening quiet by rustling around the plastic of his chocolate box. 

“I still just...don’t know how you could stand to touch me.”

“Because I _love you,_ asshole. And, for the record, you came home all fucked up and took a shower anyway—so it’s not like you were ever dirty. Wish I knew what the fuck _that_ was about. Could’ve died you dumb, stupid fuck,” Eddie said, trying not to cry as he thought about the condition their bathroom had been in. 

“Couldn’t wake you,” Richie said, voice nearly a whisper. “Couldn’t wake you up without touching you and I was...I was dirty. Couldn’t touch you.”

“I would rather you have fucking—fucking… I don’t know! Spit on me! Throw up on me! I don’t know, I would rather you have done _anything_ to wake me up. I don’t care about the germs or getting sick when you could _die._ Okay? I don’t care about any of that when it comes to you. I’d rather you be _safe._ I’d rather… I’d rather you be safe.” Eddie covered his face with his hands, trying to rub away the tears from his eyes before they got worse. 

“Sorry if I fucked up our bathroom… Guess I took ‘bloodbath’ a little too literally,” Richie said, trying to sound upbeat though the way his voice caught in his throat made Eddie want to panic He didn’t want to be crying and he didn’t want Richie crying over him. 

“Looked like a fuckin’ slaughterhouse,” Eddie whimpered, lowering his hands and wiping them on the legs of his jeans.

“Sorry. I’m sure my car looks even better.”

“I sent it to get detailed,” Eddie said, still sniffling a bit as he stared at the wall in an attempt to ground himself and regain his composure. “Really nice place. They said no problem. They fixed the mirror, too. She’s all ready to go when you’re cleared to drive again.” He left out the part where Ben did most of the grunt work, cleaning up the obvious blood from every surface. 

“Ugh, probably never. I can’t see for shit. I can’t focus for shit. Multitasking? Fucking forget about it. I’m surprised I can eat these chocolates and remember you’re still here.” 

Eddie didn’t know if that was an exaggeration or not, but it made his stomach flip regardless. 

“These are really good, by the way,” Richie said, rattling the box again.

“Well, don’t eat it all at once. You’ll give yourself a stomach ache.”

“I’m okay with that, because if Armani sees them—and she _will—_ she’s gonna take ‘em. I gotta eat ‘em quick. You want one?” 

Eddie took one, only because Richie looked at him expectantly and held out the box. If Richie told him to bark like a dog, he probably would. Especially if it meant Eddie could try to touch him. They communicated so much by just brushing against each other—they could have arguments without ever opening their mouths. Richie’s fingers brushing a certain way on his spine could transmit so much information. Eddie didn’t want all of that to be gone…

But he wouldn’t force himself on Richie. He would be patient. He’d wait as long as it took. 

( ) ( ) ( )

All Richie wants in the world is to hold his partner’s hand. He knows better than to hope for a kiss or to allow Eddie to ever, _ever_ lay beside him again, but he would give anything to just hold hands. But they couldn’t… He _couldn’t._ How he’d even forgotten what happened, Richie couldn’t comprehend. How Eddie could know about it and put his own needs aside to lay at his side, kissing him, day in and day out in this sickbed was beyond him…

Didn’t he know Richie was gross? Didn’t he know he was putting himself at risk? Richie would hate himself forever if Eddie got sick because of him—because he was reckless and put himself in that stupid, awful situation.

A cigarette was all he’d fucking wanted. Back at the bar. Back before it happened.

He’d just wanted a fucking cigarette and to pick a fight with Eddie, who would definitely smell the cigarette on him later and demand to know why he’d started smoking again. _You’ll get cancer! Both my parents died from cancer, jackass! Do you want to do that to me too!? Do you want to make me take care of you when you’re laying in hospice, hooked to fifty fucking machines just to breathe and take a piss!?_

Cancer, Richie thought, would’ve been better than this. He should’ve listened. He should’ve kept his promise and tried harder to quit—he’d just been _so mad._ He just wanted to make Eddie admit that he still cared about him. That he wasn’t going to pack up and leave.

He should’ve, Richie thought now. He should’ve… Eddie should’ve packed up and left while Richie was off being stupid. 

Richie didn’t want to think about the bar or what happened behind it, pinned between someone’s silver sedan and a brick wall, next to a recycling barrel, but now it was all he could remember. It was the only thing that felt real. Even the chocolates he’d set aside on his table by the flowers didn’t feel as solid or concrete as the visions in his mind.

What had once been so pleasantly buried in his shattered, hazy head, was now at the forefront of everything. 

The attack. The feeling of his skull cracking against a brick wall, cracking against the pavement, denting the side panel of a silver sedan. 

How was he ever going to…

How could he…

Would Eddie even understand if…

Richie’s mind raced with helpless questions, doubts and fears, all trailing off because he couldn’t quite get his head wrapped around it—around what happened. He _knew_ what happened—God, he could fucking still _feel it_ happening—but the whole concept seemed so insurmountable. 

Was he even still a…

How could he call himself a Dom if…

Was it all just _over?_ Stripped away from him like his pride, like his security, like his entire fucking spirit? Richie felt like a fire doused in ice water—extinguished, cold, dead, _hazy._ He felt as if at one moment, he’d been _something,_ and now...just nothing. 

If a stranger came up to him and asked him his name, Richie didn’t even know if he’d have an answer. He wasn’t Richie Tozier… He wasn’t _anything._ And if he was, it was something bad.

Burden, for a start. Useless. _Stupid._ He could barely even focus to read. 

He couldn’t even _fucking_ read! 

And there Eddie was, bringing him gifts, trying to cheer him up—trying to _touch_ him.

And what if it was all just an act? Just something to make him not look so bad to the nurses who had to know by now that he was a paranoid, hypochondriacal little prick?

He was scared, so fucking terrified, that if Eddie found out the details of what happened, more so than just being aware of the _act itself,_ that Eddie would blame him for it. Or would treat him like he had a sickness, like he’d been contaminated or infected… Or wouldn’t believe him at all. He was scared it would change things—it _would_ change things.

It already had...

It was better if Richie pulled away first. Eddie’d ditch him before this was all over anyway. Might as well...start ripping the bandaid off early, right?

After all, how was Eddie going to see him as a protector, as a partner, as a Dom, as a _man,_ if he couldn’t even protect himself from what had happened?

He’d just…

Richie’d just…

He froze. They talk about fight or flight, but he fucking _froze._ How fucking pathetic was that? He’d stuck an ax through the back of a psychopath’s head, he’d killed an evil clown—and then froze up after one punch to the face. He let that man get the best of him… He _let_ this happen. If he would’ve just fought back…

If he’d been a fucking man and not a cowardly little bitch.

The crack of his skull against the brick, against the pavement, against the car. The scrape of his face along the crumbled chunks of concrete. His clothing tearing. Blows raining down on the back of his skull.

_Take it, fucking pussy! Take it, you little fucking bitch! You like that? Yeah, you like that?_

Richie shuddered and buried his face in his hands. Why did that have to be the memory that screamed the loudest? Why not the clown? Why not Derry or his childhood or _anything_ else? 

“Rich? Hey… Rich? Richie?”

The bed beside him dipped and Eddie’s arms were around him.

He couldn’t let Eddie hold him!

He couldn’t… He couldn’t—fuck, his head hurt so bad. He wanted held. He wanted touch, but he would get dependent on it and it would be all that much worse when Eddie did pack up and leave. He had to do this on his own… He had to get over this by himself. Eddie couldn’t help him.

Eddie shouldn’t have to help him. He didn’t sign up for this.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Eddie asked, his voice shaking as his hand smoothed up and down Richie’s back. 

The words Richie wanted to say wouldn’t come out. His tongue felt too heavy and any noise he made just came out sounding dumb. 

“Richie, I’m… I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t visit sooner. I didn’t mean to make you feel bad or anything. I thought you needed space. I’m sorry. Rich? I’m… Baby, I’m _sorry.”_ Eddie felt guilt when he didn’t deserve to. He shouldn’t have to feel bad or feel worried. Richie deserved to be left alone in the hospital. He’d _wanted_ it. He couldn’t have Eddie around him when he was on the verge of crying every two minutes because more and more details came flickering back to life in his head. If Eddie had been there, Richie would’ve been weak and told him the worst of it. He would’ve admitted _everything_ that had happened, and Eddie would never look at him the same way.

He would never see him as a man again, that was for certain. He would never see him as a worthy _partner._ An _equal._

Slowly, Richie realized, it was going to be that way regardless. Eddie didn’t need the details to know that Richie was pathetic…that he was weak. 

God, he wished the man had just finished the job and killed him. Spare Eddie all this suffering—spare _Richie_ all the pain and suffering. It would’ve been merciful. 

“Honey, does your head hurt? Do you need a nurse?” Eddie was pressing closer and Richie couldn’t take anymore. His arms wrapped around Eddie, shaky and clumsy, and held him tight—or as tight as he could with how little strength was left in his body. He tried so hard to tell him that he didn’t have to stay. He tried telling him he didn’t need to visit him anymore or support him. He didn’t have to stay in the house or waste time trying to get it clean.

Richie tried so hard to tell Eddie he didn’t have to waste effort trying to love him after this. 

His tongue couldn’t form the words, though. His sentences came out scrambled, garbled and messy like the rest of him. It just served to make Eddie shush him and hold him tighter. 

“We’re going to get through this, okay? It’s going to be okay.” Eddie said this while gently caressing the patchy fuzz of hair on Richie’s head, in between his scars. “I’m going to help you. I’m going to be here _every day,_ alright? We’ll get you home soon and...and we’ll get through this. I’ve got you. I’m right here.” Over and over, little words of encouragement and love that Richie didn’t deserve. 

He couldn’t pull away, though. He needed it. He needed to feel Eddie’s warmth, even just the gentle pressure of Eddie’s head on his shoulder soothed the ache in Richie’s head a bit. He was weak… He was too weak to push Eddie away for his own good. He was selfish… 

He was putting Eddie at _risk._

How could Eddie stand to touch him?

Why wasn’t Eddie shoving him away or coating him in hand sanitizer? Why wasn’t he in a fucking Hazmat suit? 

Still, Eddie held him until his crying died down, until the memories of that awful day faded back into ghosts and the room he was in felt a little more solid. By that point, Richie was laying back his bed and Eddie was curled up at his side, his head on his chest with his face pressed up into Richie’s neck like he would when they were at home together. 

“I’ve got some guys coming in to lay new carpet,” Eddie said, sniffling a little bit himself. 

Richie found himself slowly trying to work his fingers through Eddie’s hair, concentrating as hard as he could so he wouldn’t pull any of the strands. His hair wasn’t gelled the way it typically was, and Richie wondered if Eddie had been running behind that day, or if he’d stopped taking care of himself because he was too worried about Richie. 

“I fucked ours up pretty bad, huh?” Richie said, voice sticking and cracking. He had to sound so pathetic… What was even left for Eddie to see in him?

“Well… That’s what I get for popping sleeping pills like candy. Left you...fuckin’ helpless.” Eddie kissed Richie’s neck, making his whole body tense in vicarious revulsion.

How could he do it? Didn’t he realize where Richie’s flesh had been? In a pile of garbage? In a puddle of muck leaking from a dumpster? No amount of soap and water would ever wash the filth away.

“You know I… I miss seeing you around the house,” Eddie said when Richie didn’t answer him. “Miss cleaning up all your messes and yellin’ at you for leaving dirty cups everywhere. Doesn’t feel like home without you there. I can’t wait to have you back, giving me shit every day.”

“Yeah, but I’m not...I’m not _me,_ Eds,” Richie said, his heart sinking further and further the more Eddie tried to cheer him up. “It’s not going to be like it was… I’m not—I couldn’t even...” He lost track of what he was trying to say and felt a spark of panic go through his chest as his fingers caught on Eddie’s hair, just as he’d been afraid would happen. He unwrapped his arms from Eddie’s body and left them to lay at his sides while Eddie squeezed him tighter around his chest as if in protest of the loss of contact.

“Richie, you’re still my partner. He doesn’t get to take that from us. You’re my partner and we’ll work on this, and we’re going to get through it together. Okay? I left my wife for you. I want to be with _you._ I’m in this for the long-haul. For better or worse. Sickness and health, right?” 

The words made Richie panic a moment, afraid that they were married and he’d forgotten that important detail.

“Eddie, I… I’m not _me._ I’m not…” He wasn’t a lot of things he used to be, and probably never would be again. He was hardly even a man let alone a partner. He wasn’t a piece of jigsaw puzzle meant to complete Eddie’s picture-perfect life anymore. He was just jagged and broken and frayed. A scrap of paper. Trash to be left on the ground, in the filth, to bleed out and die with his pants around his feet like a moron. 

“You _are_ you. Just because you’re in here doesn’t mean you’re anything less than before. Alright? Please don’t think like that, Rich.”

Richie lost the will to argue, his head hurting too much. He found his eyes staying shut longer and longer each time he blinked, and though he fought as hard as he could, he felt his consciousness slipping away while Eddie nestled into his side more and more. Becoming infected… 

When Richie fell asleep, he dreamed of It. He dreamed of Eddie’s leper—dreamt it was him, chasing Eddie down, trying to kiss him while slobbering blood and rot. He saw himself the way Eddie must see him. Infected. Contaminated. Filthy.

Unclean.

When he woke up, tears coursed down his cheeks because the nightmare wasn’t over. Nothing had changed except Eddie was hugging him, filth and all.

_Filth_ and all.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: mentions of flashbacks, slightly-graphic reference to sexual assault, suicidal ideation

Richie didn’t recognize their house when he came home. 

Eddie had to pretend it didn’t worry him and played the part of an excited real estate agent. And _this_ is our kitchen! And _this_ is our living room! Meanwhile, Richie stared around at everything like he’d never seen it before in his life. 

What else didn’t he remember?

Eddie had gotten fresh flowers and put them in different rooms, trying to liven the place up a bit—trying to make it more welcoming for Richie’s homecoming. He was so happy to have him back, to know that his condition was stable enough that he could be home. It had been months _—months!_ Eddie was so excited to have his partner back in their safe, quiet home. To have him away from all those sick people and pushy nurses. 

Richie would be able to sleep in their own bed, drink from their own cups. Eddie promised him Taco Bell and was setting the food out on _their own_ plates at _their own_ table in _their own_ dining room.

“Baby?” Eddie said, once all was laid out and his partner had wandered away without him noticing. “Babe?” He peered out of the dining room at the kitchen, then wandered further out until he found Richie staring at the door to their garage. “Baby, the food’s ready. Come eat.”

“Right… Okay,” Richie said, still staring at the door. 

“Baby, c’mon,” Eddie said, reaching out to take his hand and pulling him just a little in the right direction. “Fast food’s already a health risk when it’s fresh. We don’t need to get you out of the hospital just to put you right back in with food poisoning ‘cause we let it sit too long.” 

“Right…” Richie was looking back over his shoulder at the door.

“Everything okay?” Eddie asked, rubbing Richie’s shoulder gently as he coaxed him into his seat at the dining room table. He hadn’t shown him the garage, partially in fear that it might cause him to have a flashback. Those happened from time to time at the hospital, and Eddie didn’t think he could handle one happening so soon at home. 

“Hm?” Richie turned back toward him and smiled. “What did you say? Sorry.”

“No, it’s—it’s fine. I asked if everything was okay.” Eddie looked at him, trying not to let his worry show but unable to muster a smile. 

“Oh! Yeah. Just… My car? It’s here, right?”

“Yeah. Do you… Do you want to go see it? I got her all cleaned up for you.” Eddie managed to force the smile as he straightened up from where he’d been about to sit down at the table. 

“No. No, you can sit down. Sorry. Just—just remembered something,” Richie said, waving a hand around his head as if swatting away a fly. Or an intrusive thought. “I’ll check her out after we eat. Like you said, don’t want to end up back in the hospital with food poisoning.” He chuckled a little bit, a laugh as forced as Eddie’s smile. His genuine laugh was now so fleeting and rare that Eddie’s heart broke just hearing him try to sound humored. 

In his meetings with Richie’s doctors and the psychiatrist as they prepped him for Richie’s homecoming, they made it a point to drive home the reality of their new situation. Things would be tense, they said. Things would be awkward and at times uncomfortable. He might come to find that more parts of Richie’s personality may have changed, things that wouldn’t come to light in the hospital setting. They warned about depression and worsening anxiety as Richie had to readapt to his home life. It would not be easy. It would not be pleasant or romantic. There was a good chance, they cautioned, that Richie would never again be the same person he was before the attack.

Eddie hadn’t want to believe them. He didn’t want to think that his partner was gone, that all the traits that made Richie _Richie_ had been beaten out of him. 

But hearing Richie struggle to laugh was making it all seem true…

Watching him make a mess of his face and their dining room table stuffing his mouth with cheap burritos smothered in hot sauce packets gave Eddie the oddest mix of disdain and satisfaction, though. Some things, at least, stayed the same. 

“Holy _fuck,_ I missed this shit. Oh, my God!” Richie moaned, his mouth full of chewed up tortilla and highly processed mystery meat camouflaged as beef. “So fuckin’ good.”

“Try chewing with your mouth closed,” Eddie said, passing Richie a bit of side-eye as he picked up the soft taco he’d gotten for himself—sub black beans because he was not about to eat mystery meat any more than he was about to refuse Richie his one wish for Taco Bell.

“I can’t!” Whatever he said after that as his justification was a garbled mess of syllables accented with a smear of sour cream across his bottom lip. “Babe, this is so fuckin’ amazing,” panted in between finishing up one burrito and starting on a hard shell taco. More garbled, full-mouthed nonsense. 

“If you keep trying to talk with your mouth full, you’re going to choke,” Eddie warned him, only half kidding as he finally took a bite of his own taco. Preservatives… Teenagers with un-gloved hands touching his food… Nope. Nope, this was disgusting. How the Hell did Richie think this was _good!?_

Still, Eddie choked it down while his partner beamed at him from across the table. His joy seemed so genuine and it made the exposure to foreign bacteria and possibly spit-in food a little less awful.

He needed to learn how to make this stuff at home so Richie could still have the flavor without all the risk. Eddie could get lean ground beef or—no! Bison! Bison was a lot healthier than beef, right? Yeah, ground bison meat tacos. Or burritos. Whatever Richie wanted. Eddie would figure it out. He’d add it to the To Do list.

After Richie had had his feast, Eddie cleaned up the table while Richie wandered around their kitchen—looking in cupboards and versing himself on where everything went. He got himself a sports bottle full of water, then went back toward the garage. Eddie’s skin prickled as he heard the door leading to it open and the light clip on. He was frozen in place, sanitizer wipe in hand mid-way through wiping off a gross mix of sour cream and hot sauce, as he listened to Richie’s footsteps. 

Richie clipped on the light in the garage, went down the concrete steps, then opened his car door. It was quiet after that and Eddie forced himself to move his arm and finish cleaning the table. He imagined a To Do list in his head, just to keep himself from chasing after Richie. Clean the table—check. Rinse dishes—check. Put the dishes into the dishwasher—check.

By that point, the car door closed and Richie was coming back into the house.

“Eds?”

“In the kitchen,” Eddie answered, hoping his voice didn’t sound as nerve wracked as he was. 

“I thought you said I knocked the mirror off the car.” Richie was squeezing the plastic bottle, repeatedly making the plastic give a horrid crackling and whistling noise as the air was pushed through the spout on the top.

It was another one of his irritating habits, much like chewing with his mouth open and talking with his mouth full of wet gobs of a food. In the moment, Eddie’s heart swelled with fondness over it. 

“I told you I sent your car to get fixed. You think I was just going to leave it like that?”

“So wait… You drove my car?” Richie asked, the corner of his mouth twisting upwards with a smile. 

“You think I’m crazy? I had it towed.”

“You had it _towed_ for a missing mirror?” Richie’s mouth was still curved in that same little smile—like he was having the same thoughts as Eddie. Some things just didn’t change. 

“Yeah, jackass. I did,” Eddie sighed, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned against the counter. Richie was still crackling his bottle, strong hand crushing the plastic just enough to make it whistle out a puff of air, and then letting it go.

A memory of those same hands closing around Eddie’s throat flashed through his brain and Eddie had to look away from him to get his thoughts back under control. It was too soon to be thinking about Richie like that. Way too soon.

“Why? You hate my car that much?” Richie asked, sounding as humored as ever. 

“For starters, yes,” Eddie said. “And, for your information, it’s illegal to drive without the side-view mirrors _and_ I’d be statistically more likely to not only, _not only_ get in an accident due to decreased visibility, but also to be pulled over for the missing mirror because red sports cars are nothing but over-hyped cop catchers.”

Richie giggled, his blue eyes thinning into little slits as he laughed. Genuine. All Eddie wanted was to kiss him—hot sauce stain on the right corner of his mouth and all. He would taste of the same gross food he did every time he came home late from taping at the studio—food he ate in his car and hid the paper bags for in their trashcan thinking Eddie would somehow not know he’d had it. 

But Eddie knew if he went for it, Richie would turn away from him. He’d flinch away and look ashamed and say he was sorry and it’d all be ruined. 

So Eddie just humphed at him went back to tidying up.

( ) ( ) ( )

Richie wanted to lay down. 

After their fantastic dinner of fast food Eddie no doubt equated to poison, they settled in to watching a little bit of television. It was getting easier for Richie to follow complex plots and keep up with the motions on the screen, but they still made him tired. He kept forgetting who different characters were and was too afraid it would make Eddie upset if he were to interrupt to ask him. 

Being home was exciting and much more comfortable than the hospital, especially with Eddie trying to cheer him up with Taco Bell for dinner. He knew how much Eddie hated that stuff and hated the fact that he ate that way at all. After living for months on hospital food with only the little snacks Eddie snuck past the nurses for him, Taco Bell tasted like the food of the gods. It warmed his heart so much.

At the same time, being home was overwhelming. There was so much stuff he was realizing he didn’t remember. How had he forgotten what his house looked like? Richie couldn’t even remember buying the place… What else had he forgotten? How much more was he going to have to ask Eddie to show him? 

What was going to happen now that they were alone together? 

It was all too much and Richie wanted to go lay down. But he didn’t want to cut their evening short and he didn’t want to make Eddie worry. He guessed it was kind of obvious, though, that he was exhausted. His head kept tipping back against the couch and he had to pull himself awake every few seconds which was starting to give him a headache. At this point in the game, blinking too hard gave him a headache.

“You tired, babe?” Eddie asked, glancing at him only briefly before turning his eyes back to the television.

“Hm? Yeah… Long day. Stuffin’ your face with Taco Bell really takes it outta ya.”

Eddie was smirking at the joke. A good sign, Richie thought as his eyes threatened to close yet again.

“You can lay down if you want.” Eddie punctuated the offer by clapping himself on the thighs—like he wanted Richie to lay down with his head in his lap.

Richie’s heart ached for it. They used to cuddle up together on the couch all the time. With their work schedules being so different, it wasn’t uncommon for one of them to be falling asleep on the other when they tried spending time together. He remembered _that_ at least. Feeling warm and close and whole. He’d had everything he could have ever wanted—a best friend, a _partner—_ all pushed up against him whenever he wanted it. Now, that same touch felt like battery acid. Richie could feel his rot and filth seeping into Eddie’s body whenever they touched. 

His psychiatrist said it would get better with time. She promised him those feelings would go away, but they didn’t. Richie just got better at hiding them so they’d let him out, so Eddie wouldn’t have to waste hours in traffic trying to come to the hospital to see him after work every day. He still felt the grit and filth all over his skin. He still had nightmares about it happening, sometimes while he was wide awake. 

“I can put a pillow down if my legs are too bony. Guess I lost a little weight too.” Eddie was poking at his thighs, the scrawny little chicken legs that they were. He was looking at himself critically and Richie couldn’t take it. He didn’t want Eddie to feel bad because of him. He didn’t want Eddie to suffer any more because of him. 

“Your leg bones aren’t what’s going to be poking me,” Richie joked, forcing on a smile. 

“I’m a grown man, jackass. I do have self-control, you know,” Eddie grumbled, grabbing a throw pillow from beside him and laying it across his lap. “Lay down before you pass out and fall off the couch.”

Slowly, Richie did as he was told, finding a way to shimmy that would make it comfortable for him to lay across the couch with his head on the pillow—on Eddie. As soon as he was settled across the cushions and had one of his feet propped up on the adjacent chair, Eddie pulled down the blanket that was draped over the back of the couch and covered him. The small gesture had Richie feeling warm inside and out, the butterflies swelling in his stomach as he thought about how much effort it took for Eddie to seem so unbothered by being close to him. Eddie acted as though having Richie cuddled close wasn’t the same as snuggling a contagion. He made it seem believable… 

Eddie’s arm was wrapped around him, stroking the bone of his wrist through the thick fabric of the blanket. Richie could, at one moment, feel how rigid and tense Eddie was as soon as they started to touch. Then it bled away as Eddie let out a heavy, contented sigh and leaned further back into the couch. 

Richie let his eyes slip closed, trying not to focus too much on Eddie’s hand caressing him. He felt a little bit like a pet dog and a little ashamed that he didn’t mind it so much. Eddie was just trying to comfort him in the only way he knew how. Once Richie choked back his repulsion, it felt nice. It _was_ nice. As he was starting to fall asleep, Eddie’s hand roamed a little more. His fingertips grazing Richie’s scalp and short, fuzzy hair. 

He couldn’t wait for it to grow back now that he’d had the last of his surgeries. He couldn’t wait to grow back his unruly curls, gray or black or in between, and hide all the jagged scars. Scars Eddie was now outlining with the pad of his thumb before he leaned down and pressed two soft, slow kisses to Richie’s battered scalp. 

It was such a small thing, but it made Richie’s eyes water and he nuzzled further down into the pillow beneath his head in a desperate attempt to hide it. He wanted to tell Eddie he was putting himself at risk. He wanted to tell him to stop—not to touch him, not to _kiss him_ of all things. But Eddie seemed so happy, so content, that Richie was forced to keep his mouth shut and take it. Let Eddie infect himself. Let Eddie become tainted because of him… 

Even so, Richie slipped into a hazy, dreamless sleep. When he came back around, it was to Eddie rubbing his shoulder firmly, whispering to him that it was time to go to bed. He sat up and rubbed his eyes under his glasses, feeling groggy and no better rested than he had been prior to laying down. 

Eddie helped him upstairs, leaving Richie to get changed into sleep clothes himself while Eddie went through his extensive pre-bed routine. Richie struggled to remember which dresser drawers were his, which _clothes_ were his…

It had him so frustrated and disheartened that he ended up sitting on the corner of his bed for a good ten minutes, listening to the sink run in the attached bathroom, trying to talk himself down and build up the strength to try again. None of this even _looked_ familiar and Richie was nearing the verge of panic. It was one thing not to recognize his own house, but now to not know his clothes from Eddie’s… Why did some things stay vivid and others fade into nothing? What else had he forgotten?

He knew his parents’ names… Eddie’s birthday. His own birthday… What was missing? More things had to be missing than what his clothes looked like.

After forcing himself to put on one of the old, faded t-shirts in the drawer which fit baggy on his frame, Richie slipped on a pair of bleach-stained sweat pants that Eddie would definitely never have worn and laid down on the bed. 

Was this his side of the bed? 

Or was he in Eddie’s way…

Richie turned and looked out the sliding glass doors of his balcony. Mostly, he just saw the yellow-tinted reflection of his lamp and himself in bed superimposed on the black landscape. Headlights glided along the horizon from the interstate. By the time Eddie had returned from the bathroom, all brushed and flossed and smelling of soap, Richie had himself hypnotized by the distant traffic.

“Comfy, isn’t it?” Eddie asked, laying down beside him and shifting around. 

Richie had to blink a few times before the words even registered.

“Comfy?”

“Yeah. I got us a Memory Foam mattress pad. It’s the cooling kind. Comfy, right?” Eddie asked.

The light was still on even though Eddie had shuffled down and had his head laid on the pillows as if he were about to go to sleep. Did they usually sleep with the lights on?

Richie felt like Eddie had ranted at him about the damaging effects of light during sleep, and something about the blue light of his cell phone screen in particular, but he couldn’t remember.

“It’s… Better than the hospital bed. For damned sure,” Richie offered. He was confused and sleepy, and Eddie must’ve seen it on his face because he smiled a lopsided little grin and rolled over to clip off the light. Richie took off his glasses and set them carefully aside on the nightstand beside him, making sure to move slowly so he wouldn’t knock anything over or break something. 

As soon as they were tucked away, Eddie was shifting closer. Before long, he had his forehead pressed against Richie’s shoulder, then an arm slowly encircling Richie’s waist in a one-armed hug.

“Eds…”

“Hm?” Even that little hum sounded so happy, so content—like Eddie felt he was living the dream, all snuggled up to a rotting corpse. It made Richie sick to his stomach. “What?” Eddie pressed when Richie didn’t continue. 

He kissed Richie’s neck, a soft and gentle, warm peck that shattered Richie’s heart. 

“Just… You’re all comfy and I need to take a leak. This is ruining the whole mood,” Richie forced himself to say, feeling better the instant Eddie pulled away from him.

“Yeah, and you need to brush your teeth, too. You still smell like Taco Bell.”

“Better than smelling like Scope,” Richie said as he escaped the bed and fumbled blindly for the bathroom. Why didn’t he grab his glasses? Brushing his teeth blind was a fucking challenge and he ended up having to sit down in order to piss since he doubted Eddie wanted to spend the next forty minutes scrubbing his pee out of their bathmat. 

Richie made sure to wash his hands, washing all the way up his forearms where he could still feel that other person touching him all these weeks and weeks later, then went back to bed. Immediately, Eddie was snuggling against him again, undeterred. Every now and then, he forced out these little, happy sighs—trying his best to make Richie feel better, trying to make him feel like nothing had changed and that he wasn’t just straight up, pure filth. 

“I missed this,” Eddie whispered, face pressed completely into the meat of Richie’s arm.

“What? My BO?” Richie asked, earning an annoyed humph from Eddie.

“Having you at home, asshole. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get a good night sleep without hearing you snore all night? It’s too fucking quiet in this house. Lonely,” he added in a quiet mutter as he nuzzled Richie’s arm a bit more until Richie caved and wrapped it around him so Eddie could sleep on his chest. 

The sound of delight Eddie let out as he settled himself down on Richie’s chest was so fucking close to genuine… It hurt. Watching Eddie force himself to touch such a volatile contagion was painful. Richie found himself starting to cry and doing everything in his power to keep silent about it. He didn’t need to make Eddie worry…

He didn’t need to do this to him.

Fuck, he should’ve just stayed in the hospital. 

Why hadn’t he just admitted he was still “experiencing trauma” and stayed put? 

Why didn’t that man just kill him?

Richie laid awake for hours, listening to Eddie breathe while his mind spun in circles. Graphic memories played behind his eyes, flesh memories scattering across his skin. He felt burning hot hands on his thighs, forcing him open. He felt blood trickling down his scalp. Richie’s breath caught in his throat as that man’s vicious words echoed louder and louder in his head. 

It was over—why couldn’t it just stop? It happened and it was done. Why did his mind insist on replaying it again and again and again!? What good did it do? What purpose did it serve to make him feel that man _inside of him_ all over again!?

Richie was exhausted and he couldn’t sleep. His head hurt so, so much and all he wanted was to sleep. He wanted his brain to shut off so he could sleep. 

He wanted Eddie to _get the fuck off of him!_ Seriously, dude, just roll over already! Couldn’t he feel the grit? Couldn’t he feel the sludge of mud and muck that coated Richie’s entire front from being thrown to the ground in the alleyway? Richie could _smell_ it.

Why was Eddie still _cuddling_ him?

The thoughts grew louder and louder until a switch clipped off in his brain. It was dark and, most of all, silent. 

When he opened his eyes again, the room was glowing with early morning light and Eddie had rolled away to his own side of the bed. Suddenly, the space between them felt as horrid and uncomfortable as when Eddie had laid on his chest. Deep down, despite knowing that Eddie needed to keep his distance in order to stay safe, Richie didn’t want him to go. He wanted Eddie to hold him. He wanted that comfort which came from hearing his partner tell him he was okay and that nothing bad was going to happen to him again.

Richie rolled over onto his side and found himself scooting closer to his partner, spooning up to him in a way he had no right to do.

“Mm, good morning,” Eddie mumbled, half asleep as he wiggled back against Richie—pushing his back flush against Richie’s chest. Richie wrapped an arm around him, feeling a smile tug at his lips when Eddie immediately grabbed his hand and held it to his chest, right beneath his chin. “I’m keeping this,” Eddie said to him, kissing his knuckles a time or two before settling down like he was about to go back to sleep.

“Okay, but it’ll cost you,” Richie said, sighing and settling in to his new position. His head didn’t hurt anymore and he closed his eyes to make sure it stayed that way.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You can have my hand, but I get the whole torso,” he said, squeezing Eddie gently and earning a soft exhale in response. 

He really shouldn’t be touching him… He just couldn’t help himself. Eddie was so close and he really didn’t seem to mind. He seemed to like it… Why else would he keep kissing Richie’s knuckles? If he was repulsed or faking, wouldn’t he stop after once or twice? 

Richie did his best to quiet his mind and fall back asleep. For now, he would enjoy it while it lasted...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully a few speckles of fluff makes this story worth it. I know hard angst isn't what anyone needs right now. I just lost both of my jobs to Covid-19 so if any of you are in the same boat, just know you're not alone and we'll get through this!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In light of how stressful and dark the real world is for so many of us right now, this fic is taking a turn for the fluff. I think we all deserve it and there is some time lapse here so we don't have to dredge through the thick of it as Richie adapts to being home. I don't think I can go that dark right now. That being said, the road to recovery is bumpy, but that doesn't mean you don't have your ups! This chapter is one of their ups on their journey. Please enjoy!

Eddie sat on the gray loveseat across from his therapist, an elderly woman named Nina Herschel who promised him she’d ‘heard it all’ when he booked his first appointment with her in LA, all those years ago. He’d cautioned her about all of his known issues, warning her that he really couldn’t handle another therapist who said they could help him and then ended up canceling his appointments and referring him to someone else after a week. 

“I’m telling you,” he’d warned her. “I have serious, _serious_ issues.”

“And I’m letting you know that I would love to take the time and help you sort out those issues,” she said in her polite, gravely voice, “if you’d care to make an appointment.”

So he had and things had gone well, and had been going very well, up until everything that happened with Richie. Now, Dr. Herschel’s office had become the one place besides his pristine and properly bleached shower floor where he could just sit and cry without interruption. Richie was no more likely to walk in on him here in Dr. Herschel’s office than he was the shower, and that, to Eddie, was all that mattered. 

“How have things been going since Richie has come home? Eddie? How have things been going with your partner back in the house?” She asked this maybe three or four times before Eddie could get composed enough to form an answer.

“I don’t know,” Eddie said, wiping his eyes on the heel of his hand. “Some days he’s like normal, others...others he won’t talk or move. I’ve been working from home as much as I can and...and I can’t tell if it helps him to have me there or not.”

“Have you asked him?”

“No…” Eddie sniffed and grabbed for a tissue, blowing his nose and then immediately pumping two globs of sanitizer into his palm. 

“Is there a reason for that?”

“Because he’ll just tell me it’s fine, or he’ll say I don’t need to feel like I have to be in the house—but I _need_ to be with him. I _need_ to make sure he’s okay. Because he’s not okay when I leave him by himself. He just… He just sits somewhere and doesn’t move all day. He forgets to _eat,_ he forgets to _hydrate.”_ Eddie counted out more and more things, emphasizing them by shooting out the fingers of his left hand by way of counting them all out. “He just sits there or lays there and thinks about what happened and…” Eddie’s face ended up buried in his hands again as another wave of repressed tears washed over him. 

The nightmares had gotten so bad. The psychiatrist Richie had been set up with after his release from the hospital had pumped him full of so many drugs and yet Richie’s condition didn’t improve. 

“I’m so scared, doc. I’m scared I’m going to come home and find him dead. He says it all the time. He says the guy should’ve killed him and I act like that’s not something _fucked up_ to say. I act like it doesn’t make me wanna puke. I want him to talk to me, I want him to trust me, but this is fucking _killing_ me.”

“Do you know if he’s mentioned this to his psychiatrist?”

“I don’t know… I don’t sit in on his sessions. I can tell he doesn’t want me to know what all happened, so...so if he’s more comfortable talking about it without me there, I’m not going to intrude.”

“I can appreciate that, but it does remain concerning that he says he wishes he had died. Those feelings aren’t uncommon and they can be treated, but only if the person is willing to discuss it and seek help. It might be helpful for you to ask him, the next time he says something like that, if he’s talked to his doctor about those feelings. Try and see if he’s had any thoughts of harming himself, as gently as you can.”

The very thought made Eddie’s stomach flip. His chest grew tight and he had to choke back another wave of sobs in order to take a puff from his inhaler. Richie? Committing suicide? The thought was so awful… It felt like a nightmare and Eddie was so afraid it would become real. 

To come home from work or an appointment like this to just find Richie...dead. Gone. The love of his life, his best friend, just _gone._ To know that he’d been in so much pain he thought it was necessary and that Eddie didn’t help him in time… 

“Eddie? Eddie, remember our breathing exercises. Can you try to breathe with me?” 

It was because of all his constant starting and stopping to sob and wheeze their appointments had gone from one hour sessions to two hour sessions twice a week. The bill wasn’t pretty, but neither was Eddie’s life at the moment.

“I know this is difficult for you. You’re carrying a lot of weight right now, balancing work and helping your partner at home. Last time we talked about coping methods. How have you been coping?” 

They discussed his breathing exercises, his breaks for alone time when Richie got under his skin (either from his depressed antics or his annoying new habits), and different types of self-care. Some of those methods he’d even shown to Richie. It excited him to no end when he was able to coax his “oh so manly” partner into taking a bubble bath to relax. He’d always wanted Richie to try it in the past and the man always said no. He complained it was girly, complained he didn’t want to smell like flowers (even though they both fucking knew he loved flowers), and whined that it would hurt his back to lay in the tub. 

So when Eddie found a cinnamon and cardamom bubble bar (all natural, all organic, of course) online, he was all too eager to show it to Richie. 

“Fine, but if you’re forcing me into this shit, I expect candles and rose petals and a whole glass of wine. We’re going all out.” So that’s what Eddie did. Richie wasn’t supposed to drink _excessively_ on his new medications, but after consulting with Dr. Herschel about the different meds, she’d confirmed that one drink once in a while wouldn’t hurt—but to be careful Richie didn’t fall back into old habits.

As it turned out, Richie liked his soak in the tub. Maybe it finally made him feel clean, because although he’d only taken three or four bubble baths since the first one, he was as cuddly as he used to be before everything that had happened. But only right after his bath… The next day, he’d be back to how he usually was—standoffish, distant… Sad.

“Eddie, do you think it might be beneficial to have Richie join us for a session? Or even just part of one if two hours is too much stimulation for him at this point in his recovery?”

Eddie looked up at her, face still red as he’d just started to get over his last wave of tears. Richie? Come here? He didn’t know if his boyfriend would go for it…

“I could ask him,” Eddie said, looking down at his hands. “What would… What would we talk about?”

She described some of the things, ranging from their changing communication styles to reestablishing trust. Dr. Herschel had deduced that part of Richie’s distancing might stem from his fear that Eddie saw him as a burden and was being dishonest when he said he didn’t mind the ways their relationship had changed. She knew they had yet to be intimate. She knew Richie had a hard time kissing him. 

“It might help for him to have a mediator get his feelings across to you. It’s not always easy to look our loved ones in the face and say we need more space, or even _less_ space! And, if it comes up, maybe we can discuss some of the things he’s said to you that are concerning—but I think only if he brings it up himself.”

Eddie agreed with that wholeheartedly. He was sure Richie knew he was the subject of these two hour sessions, but he didn’t want Richie to know to what extent. 

Even thought it sounded like a great idea, and Eddie was eager to try it, he was still sick with worry his whole drive home. What if Richie hated it? What if he took offense or thought Dr. Herschel was just trying to attain him as a patient to make more money? He’d have to keep in mind, too, what sort of mood Richie was in when he did get home. If he was upset, it definitely wasn’t the time to ask…

Richie had been home for two months and yet sometimes it still felt like day one. His cognitive function had improved, especially after his first month working with the outpatient neuro-clinic. He could watch thirty-minute episodes of sitcoms and remember them start-to-finish without forgetting characters or plot points. He played puzzle games on his phone and a Nintendo DS system that Eddie really didn’t know when he’d bought or if he’d had it all along.

Eddie tried to help hype himself up with the positive memories he had while he pulled into the garage alongside Richie’s neglected Mustang. Eddie had forced himself to drive it once a week, with Richie’s taunting “coaching” from the passenger seat because Eddie couldn’t drive stick to save his life. Richie was worried about maintenance, about the tires going flat or the engine seizing up from sitting too long. It was comforting to see Richie remembered how to shift gears and keep the car from stalling, even if he wasn’t the one behind the wheel. Maybe he’d surprise them both and be back behind the wheel in less than a year if he could get his impromptu napping under control.

Positive, he reminded himself. Just stay positive. 

Eddie talked himself up and went into the house after checking his face one last time in the sun-visor mirror to make sure it didn’t look like he’d spent the last two hours crying. 

“Baby?” Eddie called, alarmed when the very first thing he smelled was food. Cooked food—not microwaved food and there was definitely a difference. Eddie didn’t even close the door leading out to the garage all the way as he hurried around the corner into their kitchen, expecting to see char, expecting to see smoke or something sizzling on the burner while Richie was passed out in his chair from an involuntary nap.

Instead, he found a dirty skillet and corning ware bowl in their sink. Both were full of orange water… Tomato product...rotting in their sink… Bacteria. Germy swimming pool in their sink. “Richie!?”

“I heard you the first time,” in a sing-song voice as Richie came far too rapidly down the stairs. 

“What is this?” Eddie asked, pointing to the sink as soon as Richie came into the room. His eyes were alert now, not at all the hazy and unfocused gaze Eddie had gotten when he left that morning for work.

“What? I made lunch. I made some for you, too. It’s in the fridge.” Richie looked pleased with himself, and his smiles were now so few and far between that Eddie couldn’t bring himself to say that it was past seven at night, that he didn’t want whatever leftovers Richie had made for his dinner, or to complain that those dishes had been stewing in bacteria since _lunchtime._

“We’ve talked about this!” Eddie exclaimed instead. “You’re not supposed to use the oven. Baby, you could catch the house on fire.”

“I was careful. I set alarms on my phone and I did it after I just got up. It was fine. Nothing even burnt.”

“Richie, you burnt shit before your brain turned to mush. You need to be careful. I don’t want anything to happen to you,” Eddie said, forcing his voice to stay low and gentle as he closed the distance between them. He gauged Richie’s facial expression every step of the way, only leaning up for a kiss after Richie’s small grin stayed in place. 

His whole body started to sing when Richie’s hands fell on his hips and pulled him close. He smelled of the cinnamon and cardamom bubble bar, meaning he’d taken a bath—meaning he would let himself get close without getting that ashamed, guilty look in his eyes.

“I called in to a pitch meeting today,” Richie said, his arms wrapped around Eddie’s shoulders now, holding him in place. 

“Yeah?” Eddie felt like this had to be a dream. Richie hadn’t done anything with his network or writers or Steve since the incident—other than to fill them in on his health prognosis and recovery. 

“They liked three of my jokes. I’ve been writing a little bit… Or, trying to. Kind of… I had most of a page typed out so I thought I’d give it a try. One’s going to be in the monologue for the Late Late Special.”

“What, tonight?” Eddie asked, his head popping up from Richie’s chest to check his expression—to see if this was about to turn into some self-deprecating joke. But, instead, Richie just looked pleased with himself—his eyes holding a spark Eddie hadn’t seen in weeks. Months.

“Yep.”

“Holy shit! Holy fuck, that’s great! Did you tell the guys? Shit, we’ve gotta set up the DVR. We’re recording this.”

“It’s gonna be on YouTube like an hour after it airs,” Richie said, wrinkling his nose at Eddie like thought his boyfriend was stupid. 

“I don’t give a shit! I want it on my DVR! Let me live my life, asshole.” Eddie knew he needed to let Richie go and break off their hug, especially since Richie had stopped hugging him back and was now just resting with his chin on top of Eddie’s head. Even so, he lingered a minute or two more to take in the good news—and his boyfriend’s great smell. 

“Yeah, so...I got up and called into the meeting and...it went good so I made lunch after my nap. And then I took a nap and then fell asleep in the tub. So, I’ll probably have a cold tomorrow because I woke up in freezing water, but I didn’t drown—so that’s good news.”

If he weren’t suffering from a brain injury, Eddie would’ve slapped him. Of the things he wasn’t supposed to do, using the oven and letting himself fall asleep in the tub were two. He couldn’t always help when he fell asleep, but if he’d needed more than two naps already today, it was a dead giveaway that it was one of his foggy days and he would need more. 

Which means he _definitely_ shouldn’t be using the oven or splashing around in the tub.

“Don’t make me come home to find you dead in my tub, please,” Eddie said, nuzzling further into Richie’s warm, broad chest. “And don’t ever leave wet dishes in my sink again.”

“Oh, no, did I break one of the rules?” Richie asked, chuckling softly before pressing a kiss to Eddie’s head and then pulling away. 

Eddie wanted so badly for that to be an invitation for something, but knew better than to assume or make a move. They hadn’t so much as even hinted at being intimate with each other and Eddie highly doubted Richie was trying to offer up a scene—especially not with himself on the receiving end of a punishment. And if he was, Eddie was not going to comply. The last thing he wanted to do in the world was put marks or hands on his partner, not even in the context of a roleplay. Not this soon… Maybe not ever again. 

“You’re washing those dishes,” Eddie said, calling after Richie who had wandered off into their living room where the television was playing quietly. 

“Make me,” Richie answered from his little nest of blankets in his recliner.

“I’m going to make you make dinner because I’m not washing that skillet and I need that skillet for the stir fry I was going to make!” 

“I made you leftovers.”

“I don’t want leftovers! I want stir fry.” Eddie dropped down onto the couch, trying his best to make it apparent that he had no intention of cleaning that skillet or eating leftovers. 

“Sounds like a you problem,” Richie said whilst turning up the volume on the TV.

“Fucker, you’re washing those dishes.”

“And if I don’t?”

“You’re going to.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Wash the fucking dishes! I’m _hungry!”_ Eddie made a show of pouting and Richie finally cracked another smile that had Eddie melting despite how much he tried to hide it. 

“After this episode. It’s my favorite. I’ll do dishes.” Only that turned in to him falling asleep—probably on purpose—and Eddie having to wash the dishes regardless. 

He made them both stir fry and woke Richie up with a kiss on his cheek before setting the plate in his lap on top of a pillow. Richie crunched happily on his food while watching more sitcoms and listening to Eddie talk about his day at work. Richie was having a good day, so for the moment Eddie put off inviting him to therapy in fear it would lower his mood. 

Before the Late Late Special, Richie moved himself and his blankets over to the couch, laying himself out across the cushions with his head in Eddie’s lap—no pillow for a barrier this time! For the first time! In _months!_

Eddie’s heart was pounding with pure joy. He felt so much relief, so much hope. He let himself lean down to kiss the side of Richie’s head, letting the small curls that had grown in tickle his nose. The worst of his scars was the last one showing, all the others disguised almost completely by his thick, dark hair. There was more gray in it than before, but that was to be expected. Eddie offered to help Richie dye it, but his partner had turned him down for the time being. He wanted to “get used to it.” 

“That’s it—that’s my joke! I wrote that,” Richie said, pointing to the screen and grinning like crazy. 

“I knew you still had it in you,” Eddie said, giving up their longstanding farce of an agreement that Eddie never found him funny. He coupled the compliment with a few gentle strokes across Richie’s head and smiled down at his partner when Richie rolled onto his back to beam up at him. 

His eyes were foggy again, like he really needed to go to sleep, but his joy was so infectious and palpable that it had Eddie forsaking the almost maternal urge to tell Richie it was time for bed, even though the show was still on—albeit at a noisy commercial break.

“Everyone was really happy about it,” Richie said. He reached up with his hand to caress Eddie’s cheek—his thumb tracing the long scar there from Henry’s knife. Eddie’s ‘action hero’ scar, as Richie called it. Sometimes, he said it made Eddie look like the villain from an old Western movie. This led to Eddie being coerced into dressing like a cowboy in all black for Halloween at one of Richie’s company events. The sex they had in the backseat of Eddie’s car that night was fucking ‘wilder than the West,’ as Richie kept repeatedly insisting. “Feels like, uh, you’re really...happy about it,” Richie said, his face going red as he slowly sat up. 

The _one time_ he cuddles without a pillow and Eddie goes and gets a fucking semi from an old memory. God fucking damnit!

“Sorry… Baby, I-I’m sorry.”

“It’s all good,” Richie said, settling himself at the opposite end of the couch.

“I… I was—I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. _Hard_ to resist my pretty boy looks.” He spoke the words and then looked like he swallowed back a throat-full of vomit. 

“Got to thinking about...about that time in my car. The Halloween party?” Eddie confessed, looking down at his lap in shame. He really hoped this didn’t ruin their whole night, but it really seemed like it had. He’d done so much to make sure Richie understood that he would wait until Richie had recovered, wait until he was fully ready before they took it to that level again...now he’d gone and pushed the issue without even meaning to. “When… When I was the cowboy,” he babbled when Richie didn’t say anything.

“I… I don’t remember a _cowboy,_ but there was a lot of reverse cow _girl_ going on,” Richie said, forcing a smile before turning his eyes back to the television. “That was a fun night. Glad I can still remember it.” They watched another whole segment of the show before, as soon as the next commercial break started, Richie proclaimed, “That _was_ a fun night,” before laying himself back down.

Eddie’s little problem had since gone away and he kept his mind focused on anything but that night in the car to keep it from coming back. He petted Richie’s hair and massaged the back of his neck right where it met his shoulder blades, earning a contented sigh from his partner. 

“That’s one of my other jokes,” Richie said, little enthusiasm this time—though he sounded more sleepy than upset. “And… Yup, there’s the last one.” He laughed a little to himself, then nuzzled his face against Eddie’s knee. “I’ve got a few more I can pitch, but… I think I’m gonna wait until I have another full page. Can’t get them expecting something every day. I wasn’t even that productive before I got my brains bashed out.”

“Maybe you knocked out all the clutter and now you’ve freed up space to create,” Eddie said. They’d gotten used to this sort of humor, downplaying what happened. Dr. Herschel said that humor seemed to be Richie’s obvious way of coping and it should be encouraged. Eddie hated it at first, it made him sick to even try laughing about the condition his partner had been in, but if it helped Richie...he’d put up with it.

“Should do it once a year. Like spring cleaning, but flushing out my skull.”

“If that’s what you were trying to do, it didn’t work. Your mind’s still filthy as fuck.”

“I’m not the one having cowboy fantasies over here.”

“Bullshit. You made me wear that outfit.” Eddie forced himself to think about how uncomfortable the hat was that he’d been forced to wear—how itchy and heavy and how it pinched his left ear—so he wouldn’t get excited again.

“I remember you making me wear women’s panties that one time. Way dirtier than a button-down and jeans, Babe.”

Eddie felt his face grow hot, burning to the point that he almost felt feverish. “I wanted to see if I’d like it. And, for the record, I didn’t.”

“Tch. You can say that again. Felt like my dick was getting crushed. On a scale of one to ten, it was an eleven on the Boner Killer Meter.”

They had not discussed sex or intimacy or fantasies or any of their past excursions since it happened. Eddie’s heart was racing and his stomach was in knots—thankfully keeping him from getting excited as the different memories danced around his head—terrified of what Richie might ask or offer, if anything at all. Maybe they were just talking, or maybe he wanted to try to celebrate his good day if he could keep his eyes open long enough to go to their room.

Would it be bad to offer? His second round of testing came up negative for HIV. The evidence they’d pulled off his clothes from the night of the assault didn’t show anyone else’s DNA but Richie’s—no semen or spit or hair. It was likely, they said, his attacker used a condom to protect himself. It was unlikely that Richie caught anything from the man. So, with that gruesome detail in mind, they should be safe to make love and be intimate if they wanted to.

If _Richie_ wanted to.

Or was he just talking? Eddie was okay with just talking about their past trysts, too.

“If you wanna talk about Boner Killer, do you remember that cane we tried? Fuck, I felt like such a wimp. One hit and I was done. Do you remember?” He asked again, petting Richie’s hair when his partner didn’t answer right away.

“I… I think so. I think.” And then a sharp inhale of breath, “Fuck, I do. I do remember that. I didn’t even know I hit you hard but you had a bruise for, like, a week.”

“’Cause you’re so strong,” Eddie said, leaning down to kiss Richie’s temple. “Don’t even know your own strength sometimes.”

“Didn’t even need a… Fuck, what’s… Word? There’s a word.”

“Safe word,” Eddie offered. He could tell Richie was getting more and more tired by the second. His voice was going rough with want of sleep. 

“Right! Didn’t even need it that time. I knew I fucked up.”

“Or I was just a pussy.”

“Please don’t use that word.” 

Eddie felt his stomach drop again, even though Richie’s tone of voice and expression remained the same. His head was spinning, racing back over all their conversations that he could remember since Richie had come home from the hospital. Had he said it before? Had he unintentionally dredged up bad memories in the middle of their routine bickering without noticing it?

“Sorry,” Eddie whispered, letting his hand just come to rest on Richie’s shoulder.

“I wouldn’t call you a pussy. You take the paddle like a champ.” Same tone of voice. He even spoke the now forbidden word like it was nothing. Eddie would’ve been irked if he wasn’t so grateful that Richie was giving him countless passes tonight.

“I _like_ the paddle. It’s fun for me.”

“I...hate that thing and you can keep it.” He chuckled quietly and then nuzzled Eddie’s knee again. “I think you have some serious issues if you think getting paddled is fun.”

“Well, not when it’s happening, but...okay, that’s a lie,” Eddie said, laughing a little at himself. “I don’t know. It’d be different if it was someone who’s not you. It’s sexy when you do it. You get all, I don’t know, tough love on me and I know I’m about to get it and that you’re gonna take real good care of me when it’s over. I wouldn’t have liked it as a kid, if that’s what you’re going for.” Eddie had never once been spanked as a child. Richie had gotten the paddle by his father if he crossed the line—which was a lot. Especially in his later teens after everything that happened with It. If they switched roles and it was for impact play, for Richie it could only be the belt or Eddie’s hand. Eddie was pretty sure they both preferred his hand—ten times more intimate than foreign leather.

“Sorry I can’t...you know, do that stuff for you right now. I’m… I’m working on it.”

“Take all the time you need, Baby. You know I don’t mind.” Eddie leaned down to kiss his head again, wishing he were in a position to hug him or even just kiss him on the mouth. “The anticipation is the best part. I don’t mind waiting.” 

That got Richie to huff a little laugh before rolling over onto his back. Eddie stole the chance to capture a kiss on the lips which Richie gently returned, smiling even after they broke apart. 

“It could be, like, years,” Richie said, his smile staying on his lips though his eyes clouded over as he said it. Eddie was sure they both knew it could very well be that long.

“If you want to talk about waiting years, I can fill you in some more on me and Myra’s sex life.”

“Oh, please do. She reminds me of my dear old Mrs. K.” He earned himself a dark scowl for that one. 

“Are you ever fuckin’ gonna let that go!? I didn’t even notice until you pointed it out and now all I can think about is how I basically fucked my mom.”

“I’m never lettin’ it go,” Richie said. “At least now we can say we’ve been to a lot of the same places.”

“Fuck. You.”

“I’m telling you, Illuminati level conspiracy here, your mom faked her death because she’s actually Myra.”

“Asshole, Myra was with me when she died. That’s not fuckin’ funny. That was my mother, okay? She died. That’s not funny.”

“It’s funny how cute you get when you’re pissed off,” Richie teased, reaching up to squish Eddie’s face.

It went on like that, all night. All fucking night. Richie was still being impossible when they climbed into bed together—teeth brushed, pills popped, and changed into fresh pajamas. 

“I’m tellin’ ya. That’s why Myra didn’t want to have kids. They’d have eleven toes and her secret would be revealed.”

“For the last fucking time, Myra is _not_ my mother.”

“Did you consult Maury Povich? Because I’m pretty sure that was a lie.”

“I will hit you. You’re pushing me, Richie, and I will literally hit you if you don’t stop.” He wouldn’t and they both knew it. 

“Oh? Hit me, Baby, one more time?”

“Stop!” 

“That’s not a safe word. Fuck… What is our safe word? I don’t… I… Fuck, I don’t remember!”

“You tried to make our safe word Beyoncé, but we agreed on poltergeist.”

“Poltergeist? No. I think we should change it.” Richie said this as he crawled his way onto Eddie’s chest, hugging him around the middle and placing a soft kiss over where the scar marring his sternum was beneath his sleep shirt.

“Absolutely not. It took forty years to find something you wouldn’t say on accident—or that you didn’t think you’d end up saying on accident. ‘Oh, what about _flamingo._ Oh, wait. I think that’s a sex move. What if I say I wanna try the Flamingo and you quit touching me?’” Eddie said, imitating Richie’s nasally tone of voice.

“I never said that.”

“I’m not the one with an impaired memory here, jackass. I think I’d know better than you.” 

It was like old times—it would’ve been exactly like old times if it had stirred that darker side of Eddie’s partner and made his Dom persona come out. His voice would get rough and hands would start to leave little bruises in hidden places that Eddie could press against later to make himself moan. 

He prayed that part of him would return someday. It didn’t have to be soon, just someday. For now, Eddie was happy just to have this. Even if his partner was one bad joke away from getting the cold shoulder for the rest of the night.

Richie must’ve sensed Eddie nearing the edge of his patience, for he settled down against his chest and in a few brief minutes was snoring softly. Eddie held him a little tighter and kissed the top of his head, going over it in his head how grateful he was for today—how much relief and hope it gave him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just picturing Richie in a bubble bath, no shower cap, relaxing with some wine and candles. Poor babe deserves it!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Flashbacks (non-graphic), suicidal-ideation, unsafe mixing of prescription drugs and alcohol.

A moan tore itself from Eddie’s throat, the rush of water from the shower head hopefully masking it so Richie in the next room wouldn’t hear. He wouldn’t—he shouldn’t—but the fear still prickled in the back of Eddie’s mind like static on the radio regardless. 

It had been so long since he’d given in, since he’d allowed himself to feel any sort of physical pleasure at all beyond the comfort of a kiss or a warm cup of coffee. He felt guilty doing it. He felt ashamed, touching himself while Richie slept in their bed alone. It was a different sort of shame than he was used to, not the worry-fear that infected him when he lived with his mother, or when he lived with Myra. He didn’t fear getting caught and having to live with the fact that the woman in his life knew he was filthy with no self-control. 

It wasn’t the delicious, tantalizing fear that Richie, his _Dom,_ would catch him breaking a rule and quickly chastise him—and _deny_ him. Coming without permission meant a paddling and no release. No release for three days, to be exact, which was very hard to accomplish after being paddled. 

That was what ran through Eddie’s mind now, as one hand propped him up against the slick wall of the shower and the other fisted his cock at a brutal pace. He’d woken up _horribly,_ sickeningly aroused from a dream about an old scene he and Richie had had. 

It played over again in his mind, no matter how badly he tried to tamp it down. It teased and tormented him until he was slipping out from between the sheets and sneaking into his shower at a quarter past four in the morning. 

_Richie’s strong hand seized him around the wrist, just as he walked past the foot of the bed where the man had been sitting. It was a bruising grip, but only until Eddie stopped moving—jerked backwards a step because the forceful grasp used his momentum against him and made him falter._

_“What?” Eddie asked, really not sure what he had done to earn the dark, disapproving gaze Richie was giving him._

_“What do you_ think, _Eddie?” Richie asked, his voice thick and heavy. “What do you_ think?” __

_“I don’t know,” Eddie whined, squirming just to feel Richie’s fist tighten around his wrist against. He’d be wearing long sleeves to the office again, no daring to roll up the cuffs for at least a week. And, when Richie’s grip tightened again as he scowled from behind his glasses, Eddie found himself licking his lips at the idea._

_“Take a guess.” His voice was so firm and commanding. It had Eddie at half- mast all on its own. “Take a_ guess, _Eddie.”_

 _“I don’t know! I was just going to go for a run.” Eddie pouted at him, squirming around just to feel Richie’s grip constrict on him again as his Dom stood up from the foot of the bed and glared down at him. Never mean—never_ really _angry. Just disappointed… Or hungry._

_“Were you?”_

_“Yes!” Eddie said, raising his voice just to earn himself a slap on the cheek. The crack was loud, but the hit was anything but hard—a warning shot. Blows to the face were never, ever hard. Still, Eddie’s now free hand shot up to caress his burning cheek, his left eye welling with tears from the sting._

_“Don’t you raise your voice to me.” Firm, and with the promise of punishment. Eddie knew he was asking for it now, but not what he’d done to attract Richie’s attention in the first place to get them to this point. “I might’ve let you off easy because we both know you’re a dumb little slut, but you_ know better _than to raise your voice to me. I’ve been going too easy on you, haven’t I?”_

_“No,” Eddie whimpered, still holding his cheek as Richie stared at him and heaved a deep, brooding sigh._

_“No?” He asked, one eyebrow quirking up high on his forehead in faux-inquisitiveness. He knew, just as Eddie knew, that he hadn’t been punished properly in probably four weeks. Hardly a real scene, hardly even a maintenance spanking in a good four weeks. Eddie still, at this point, didn’t know what he’d done to earn himself a_ good _one, but he was already licking and biting his lips in anticipation._

_Richie’s hands wrapped around each of Eddie’s wrists, pulling the one down from his face. The grip was gentle, his thumbs caressing small circles over the knobs of Eddie’s wrist bones._

_“Maybe,” Eddie confessed, staring down at his hands. He couldn’t help but to admire how small his wrists looked in Richie’s grasp—how fragile. Richie could break them both with hardly any effort, Eddie thought. An involuntary moan tore its way out of him, but Richie ignored it._

_“Are you...bored with me, Eddie?” Richie asked, those slow circles never stopping._

_“What!? No!” Eddie’s head snapped up, eyes locking on Richie’s in fear—enough fear that he felt himself start to go soft. Had he done something, said something,_ thought _something that made Richie think there was something crumbling between them?_

_But the hungry look was still in Richie’s eyes, even as he leaned forward to press a soft kiss to Eddie’s forehead, right in the center above his eyes. That was his tell—his sign—that this was all still part of the scene, that he didn’t mean it, that Eddie didn’t need to be afraid. However, if Eddie didn’t kiss him back, the scene would pause and they’d have a talk about it._

_This time, Eddie kissed him back and settled down._

_“You’re not bored with me?”_

_“No, sir,” Eddie said, his eyes back on his wrists._

_“You’re not trying to attract someone else?” His grip tightened and Eddie winced, crying out the smallest bit. Yes, long-sleeves for a couple of weeks for sure. Sadly, that meant no trips to the pool either._

_“No! Of course no—ow!” Eddie was smacked again, no harder than the first time, but on the opposite cheek._

_“Don’t you lie to me either.”_

_“I’m not!” Eddie whimpered, trying to rub his cheek only to find his wrist pinned in Richie’s grip again. He squirmed against it, stiffening in his new, red running shorts as he let himself helplessly squirm._

_“You’re not bored?”_

_“No!”_

_“You’re not trying to attract someone else?”_

_“No!” Eddie’s voice was almost the pouty whimper of a child._

_“Then you must be trying to get my attention. Have I been...neglecting you, Eddie?” He let go of Eddie’s wrist in order to caress the cheek he’d just slapped. “Is that what you’re trying to say? That I’ve been too easy on you and you’re starting to feel like I’m not giving you enough attention?”_

_“No,” Eddie whined, tensing in anticipation of another slap._

_It didn’t come—at least not to his face._

_Instead, Richie’s firm hand clapped down_ hard _against the back of his thigh, right beneath the hem of his shorts._

_Oh… It was the shorts. Eddie had bought them because this summer had been exceptionally hot and sunny. He was tired of having tan lines that started mid-thigh from his usual running shorts and swim trunks, and was _not_ about to go lay in some tanning bed in a speedo and catch cancer just to even it all out. They were short-short. Like Women’s Cut short. He hadn’t thought twice about it. All he’d thought about was his tan and keeping cool while he ran. _

_“Did we figure it out?” Richie asked, his tone still so disappointed as he stared into Eddie’s wide eyes._

_“M-My shorts, sir?” Eddie asked, getting himself spanked again by Richie’s strong hand._

__“M-My shorts, sir?” _Richie mocked. “Where did you get the idea that this was acceptable? Huh?” His hand seized the white-trimmed hem of Eddie’s shorts and yanked them, pulling the fabric taut over his straining cock. “Oh, you’re about to get it,” Richie said, his voice getting harsh as Eddie failed to answer him. “On the bed. Now.”_

_“B-But—But, sir, I—” For all his stammering, Eddie got another smack to his cheek before Richie’s strong grip closed on his wrist and pulled him down to the bed with expert precision. It had been probably six or seven weeks since they’d really gotten rough, yet Richie didn’t so much as stumble as he flipped Eddie over his lap._

_“I’ve been too lenient, Eddie! You’ve made that loud and clear!” Each sentence was punctuated by a harsh, open-palmed slap across the half-exposed cheeks of Eddie’s ass. And, yeah, he understood_ now _why the shorts weren’t alright. Half a dozen more slaps to his ass drove home_ exactly _why he’d gotten Richie’s attention this morning. “Maybe we need to go back to your training. Would you like that?”_

 _“No, sir!” Eddie whimpered, the thought driving a little wedge of fear into him—between his aching arousal and excitement. He did not want to go back to daily spankings and denial. No, no, no thank you,_ sir! __

_“No?” Three more hard, sharp slaps to his barely-covered cheeks._

_“No, sir! Please, no! I’m sorry!” And he was, sort of. Most of all, right now, he was intoxicated on the feeling of his cock rutting against Richie’s thigh each and every time he was spanked._

_“Yeah, I’ll bet you are. Stand up.”_

_Eddie stood, wringing his hands in front of himself to keep from rubbing his stinging cheeks. That would earn him the belt, and Eddie did_ not _want the belt. Eddie whimpered as Richie stood up in front of him, looking at him with that same disappointment as he shook his head—his gaze lowered to the tented front of Eddie’s shorts._

_“I’m… I’m sorry, sir—Ah!” Eddie yelped as Richie’s hand slapped down against his bulge. It wasn’t hard and it barely hurt, but it startled him. It got his attention alright._

_“Come here. Now!” His hand seized Eddie’s arm and jerked him toward the full-length mirror on the back of their bedroom door. He manhandled Eddie, twisting him around and pointing at his reddened cheeks poking out from the short hem of his running shorts. “Do you think this is appropriate, Eddie?”_

_“No, sir,” Eddie answered, sniffling as Richie spanked him again._

_“Speak up.”_

_“No, sir!” Eddie felt the tears start to well up as the humiliation coursed through him. He felt two inches tall under Richie’s scrutinizing gaze. His furrowed brow, the downward twitch of his lips as he frowned in disappointment at Eddie’s choice of clothes._

_“Why are you trying to hurt me, Eddie? Why are you trying to show off to other people what doesn’t belong to them? Huh?”_

_Eddie didn’t know what to say, his head starting to go swimmy as he watched Richie’s hands paw at him in the mirror._

_“Stay with me, baby. Stay right here,” Richie whispered, his stubble scraping at Eddie’s ear as he hugged him from behind. His warm hands slid up and down Eddie’s hips, comforting him as Eddie’s mind caught up with the rest of him. “I’ve got you.”_

_Eddie closed his eyes and let out a soft sigh, feeling the stinging in his cheeks and his thighs mingle with the dull ache of the budding bruises on his wrists and his bicep._

_“I didn’t mean to, sir. I didn’t think about it,” Eddie whispered, savoring the little kiss Richie planted on his neck before pulling back from him._

_“Of course you didn’t. Stupid little sluts never think about anything, do they? Anything besides what might get their little holes stretched—hm? You were trying to get someone’s attention. Whose was it?”_

_“No, sir,” Eddie whimpered, flinching away as Richie went to spank him again. It worked—for the moment. Eddie caught Richie’s startled, disbelieving expression reflected in the mirror—clearly shocked that Eddie had forgotten his training so much as to actually dodge his punishment. “I’m sorry! Sir, I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Eddie whimpered, about to vibrate out of his skin as Richie’s hand clasped down around his wrist again._

_“Yeah, you’re gonna be.” Firm and with little affection as Eddie was pulled toward the bed and shoved face-down against it. He knew better than to move as he heard Richie pulling open their wardrobe, his heart leaping into his throat as he listened to the tinkling of belt buckles—the soft clatter of leather straps thudding against one another._

_What would it be, Eddie pondered while his heart raced. A paddle? A whip? The crop? Not the switch… Please, anything but that. Oh, but he knew he deserved it._

_Eddie choked on a gasp as heard the switch hiss through the air, wincing in fear of a blow that didn’t come._

_“No… That’s too mean, isn’t it?” Richie said. Eddie wasn’t sure if he was supposed to answer or not, so he whimpered instead. “Too mean for someone who’s just...absentminded. Hm?”_

_There was a soft click as the switch was put away._

_“Thank you, sir,” Eddie whispered, only to tense up as he felt the thick, smooth leather of their round paddle tap against his thigh._

_“This one, do you think?”_

_“I don’t know, sir,” Eddie gasped, flinching every time Richie tapped it against him._

_“Of course you don’t. Why would you? You don’t even know why you’re not supposed to run around the city like a little slut, do you?”_

_“I-I do,” Eddie stammered, tensing as he heard the leather paddle cut through the air before cracking against his left thigh. He cried out, fists tangling in the blanket in front of him before the paddle swung down again to crash against his other cheek._

_“Oh, you do now? Why?” A third spank, right on the center of his ass—over the thin fabric of his shorts. “This one just won’t cut it. Will it?”_

_Eddie didn’t know which question to answer, so he just laid there in position while he listened to Richie rustle through their wardrobe again. He didn’t even have a chance to brace himself before their long, wooden frat paddle cracked across his cheeks. Eddie let out a small scream, his legs kicking up on reflex which he was frightened would earn him more._

_“Why don’t we dress like a little slut when we go out, Eddie? Answer right and I’ll take ten off.”_

_The paddle stayed pressed firmly against his thighs, just below the hem of his shorts which felt incredibly too short now. If he’d been wearing his typical running shorts, the paddle would still be over top of them—not pressing into his bare, vulnerable skin._

_“B-Because I’m showing people wh-what’s yours,” Eddie stammered, wondering if he’d be rewarded with a spanking for the right answer as well as the wrong._

_“Close,” Richie said, removing the paddle in order to deliver a sharp, stinging swat against Eddie’s left cheek._

_“Because I-I’m not allowed?” Eddie tried again, the tears pricking his eyes and then falling when the paddle cracked on his right cheek this time._

_“Getting warmer,” Richie said, voice low and silky and stirring up a whirlwind of feelings deep in Eddie’s core._

_“’Cause… ‘Cause I-I...” He didn’t know. All he knew was the pressure in his cock as it rocked against the bed, as the paddle cracked against his lower thighs, right above the bend of his knees. He howled in pain, this hit harder than all the rest. Hard enough to leave a mark._

_No. To make a_ point. __

 _“We don’t wear these little shorts, Eddie,” Richie said, his fingers suddenly hooking in the waistband of both the shorts and Eddie’s tight, blue briefs, “because we don’t need people seeing what I do to you. Isn’t that right? Isn’t that what you always tell me? That we don’t need people knowing_ what I do to you? _Hm? Or would you like that? Maybe I’ll give you a good paddling and make you go out with these on full display.”_

_Eddie’s shorts and briefs were yanked down to the floor, his feet kicked apart so he had to step out of them._

_“I asked you a_ question.”

_Eddie screamed again as the paddle crashed against his bare cheeks, right on his sit-spots._

_“Keep it down or you get five more. Right now you’re at thirty. Count them.”_

_“Th-thirty?” Eddie choked, lifting his head a little from the mattress and looking back over his shoulder at Richie with wide, teary eyes. The motherfucker was smirking at him._

_“Did I say thirty? I meant twenty. And don’t you dare mess up. Count them.”_

_Eddie tried. He really did, but each time the paddle cracked against him, his hips rocked against the bed—his cock thrust against the comforter until it was wet and slick with his pre-come. All Eddie knew was the paddle’s dull, heavy ache and Richie’s hand in the middle of his back keeping him in place._

_Richie forgave him for losing count. He always did. Eddie was sure they never actually made it to twenty before the paddle was set down on the small of his back. This part of the punishment, Richie liked to call_ penance. __

_Eddie sobbed into the pillow he’d at some point pulled toward his face while his ass and thighs radiated with burning pain. Each sob threatened to topple the paddle onto the floor which would only earn him penalty swats if Richie were in a particularly devious mood, but he couldn’t help it. His ass was definitely the same shade of red as his shorts—if not purple with bruises already._

_“Do you want to go for your run now, Eds?” Richie asked, somewhere behind him. Eddie prayed he wasn’t getting another implement. It had been too long. His pain tolerance wasn’t so high anymore and his cock was_ aching _he needed release so bad. “You wanna put those little shorts on and go show off_ my _property? Hm?”_

_“No, sir!” Eddie sobbed, the paddle falling as he let out a heavy sob. He heard the wood clatter on the floor and let out a deep, mournful wail._

_“Shh. Shh, it’s okay.” Instead of another implement or the same, brutal paddle, it was Richie’s soft palm sliding up and down his battered thighs. “You’re okay. You're doing good, Eddie. You doing so good, baby. But you and I both know you're not ready for this to be over. Don't we?”_

__

__

_Eddie let out a soft, little cry as he nodded his head. Richie was right. He was the Dom, and if he said they weren't done—that Eddie hadn't learned his lesson—they weren't._

__

__

_“What happens when we drop the paddle, Eds?” Richie asked as he stooped down to pick up the paddle which had fallen to the floor. He waited this time for Eddie to come up with an answer, not spanking him again right away for not answering. Always so patient when he had to be. He was the best Dom, the only one Eddie would ever have and still the best. He spoiled him, honestly, without letting him get rotten._

__

__

_“P-Penalty swats, sir?” Eddie offered, sniffling back tears as he heard Richie go back over to their wardrobe to put the paddle away. Richie heaved a loud sigh as he seemed to ponder over his options, like he didn't like task he'd been burdened with._

__

__

_“Penalty swats,” he repeated, clicking his tongue. “I think this time you earned it. Five with the switch. Count them this time or we start all over.”_

Eddie came with a choked off cry, the fingers of his left hand now pressed into his mouth, sucking them.

He was trying to get himself used to it, the feeling of something in his mouth besides food or his tongue. Richie had sucked him countless times, not just after that delicious scene. With Richie so…

Incapable? Timid? _Unavailable_ now, Eddie wanted to find at least some way to please him in the way that a partner should. He’d managed to get himself to stomach kissing on the mouth, something he’d hated even when married to Myra.

The thought made him sick to his stomach, the thought of an organ used for pissing—an organ that had literally been _up his ass_ countless times—going into his throat. Even so, Eddie tried to get himself used to the thought. If he did this enough, if he gagged on his own fingers enough, maybe he could make himself pretend Richie’s huge, thick cock was just his own fist sliding in and out against his tongue. 

For Richie, he’d try. For Richie, Eddie would do damned near anything. 

It had been nine months since the attack and Eddie was getting desperate. He and Richie had barely done more than kiss and snuggle. He would never pressure Richie, never—never. But he wanted to make himself available. He wanted to make Richie see that he _didn’t_ think of him as dirty or infected or gross—not _any_ of the things Richie cried about being when he woke up from nightmares and didn’t want to let Eddie hold him. 

Maybe if Eddie could offer this one, special thing—return the favor for the first time in their relationship—Richie would see that Eddie could _never_ think of him as dirty, could never think of him as infected… He _wasn’t_ infected. He had no sickness, no ailments passed onto him from his attacker besides the damage to his head—and that wasn’t even close to contagious. 

Eddie calmed himself down and washed himself twice over before creeping back into their bedroom after dressing in fresh pajamas. The static in the back of his head reminded him of how much it had hurt to even wear gym shorts after the paddling he’d gotten that time, all those months and months and months ago. Lifetimes ago, it felt… Sitting in his office chair had him popping boners at random, like a little high school kid all over again.

“Where’d you go?” Richie whispered, shuffling around sleepily as Eddie got under the blankets.

“Shower,” Eddie said, taking up his place at Richie’s side, his head on Richie’s shoulder.

“Shower? It’s...” He tried to look at their bedside clock even though he was too blind to see it without his glasses. “It’s early.”

“Wanted more time to cuddle,” Eddie said, pressing a kiss to Richie’s jaw. 

“Cuddle? Yes, please,” Richie said, a little smile in his voice as he wrapped his arms around Eddie. And then he heaved a great sigh just as Eddie nosed his way under his chin. “You don’t have to lie to me. I know what you were doing.”

Eddie wanted so badly for his voice to be rough with anything other than sleep. He wanted _so badly_ to just be scolded for touching himself when it was against the rules. He wanted Richie to sound disappointed instead of hurt.

“Are you mad?” Eddie asked, his lower lip jerking and twitching as his face crumpled like he was about to cry. 

He just wanted things to go back to _normal._ He knew they couldn’t. He knew they probably never would, but he wanted it so badly. He just wanted to make love. He wanted to prove to Richie just how much he really did love him, no matter what had happened.

“Mad?” Richie asked, forcing a chuckle. “Picturing you...touching that skinny, little cock. Did you finger yourself too?”

“No!” Eddie gasped. 

“Mm. Disappointing.” Richie hugged him tight and Eddie squeezed his eyes shut, feeling guilty. He wanted more than anything for Richie to allow himself to be touched. He wanted to help take his pain away, help heal him. 

“I would’ve woken you up...if I thought you’d wanna, you know...”

“What, get you dirty in the shower?”

“Yeah,” Eddie offered, nuzzling into Richie’s shoulder. 

All Richie offered him was a dull, empty hum. Still, even that was a sharp enough sound to shatter Eddie’s heart into pieces.

( ) ( ) ( )

At first, Richie thought it was the nightmares—the bad memories making him impotent. Then, he thought it was the drugs and stopped taking them for a month only to find himself still impotent only ten times more likely to fall victim to an onslaught of brutal headaches and flashbacks. He talked to his doctors—all of them. He took Viagra in secret hoping it might help, and it did—physically, at least. 

But he still couldn’t finish. He’d get close and then…

 _”You gonna come for me, pretty boy? Yeah, I bet you are. Moaning like a slut, aren’t you? You’ve been begging for this—all your fuckin’ life.”_

Richie would wind up on his knees in the bathroom, heaving his guts out until he was light-headed. One time he even cracked his head on the toilet bowl on the way down, fainting from how hard he’d retched.

Oh, Eddie had worked himself up to the point of a nervous breakdown when he came home to find Richie blacked out on the bathroom floor, head bleeding. It was just a bump, Richie had insisted. Just a bump!

But he ended up in the emergency room regardless, getting his head scanned to make sure his brains weren’t about to come sliding out through his ears. Lucky for him, they weren’t.

And luckier yet, Eddie thought he’d gotten dizzy while taking a piss and fell down—that was his explanation for why Richie’s pants were around his feet, not because he’d been trying and failing to whack off. 

For two months, Richie had been trying his hardest to have one—just one—orgasm. Just one. 

And couldn’t… 

He’d been ruined. 

The man had _ruined_ him. 

Eddie deserved better. He deserved more than an out-of-work comedian with no more jokes up his sleeve and nothing to offer. Eddie deserved a real partner, not a charity case… He deserved a _lover,_ not a burden. Not dead weight.

Richie had been forced to talk about it so much that he’d quit saying it, but nothing changed the fact that he wished he’d died. He wished he weren’t a walking miracle as his doctors put it. He wished his skull fractures had killed him, that he’d crashed his car into a wall—that he’d fallen in the shower and bled out. He was of no use to Eddie now. He was of no use to anyone. 

Each day was inching closer and closer to the one year anniversary of that awful night. No suspects. No leads. The man was still out there, laughing. Hurting others. Richie didn’t even have a description of him to offer. No race, no height, no clothing… It may as well have been a ghost. 

Richie stayed at home as much as he could, writing little one-offs for his network while all of his tour dates were officially canceled—not postponed, canceled. He did one guest appearance and the bright lights of the stage nearly made him faint. The live audience gasped, the show host caught him just in time. Richie laughed it off for the cameras and then went home to Eddie who was a nervous wreck over the whole thing. He refused all other offers to go on stage again, even though his appearance had been a success despite his fumbling. 

Richie felt like the biggest letdown in the world. He had seduced Eddie away from his wife, and for what? A life of this? The life of a caregiver who got nothing in return? 

Eddie didn’t deserve that…

Richie hated himself for smoking that cigarette, for trying to steal that kiss, for surviving the assault. He _hated_ himself for surviving the assault. He hated himself for being alive and doing this to Eddie. 

Sometimes, Richie wanted to take a bottle-full of his sleeping pills and down them with hard liquor...but he didn’t want Eddie to wake up next to a corpse. Or to come home to a corpse… Or to come home to an empty house only to get a call to come to the morgue and ID his bloated, rotting corpse. 

So he was stuck alive—stuck breathing. This wasn’t alive.

This wasn’t a relationship.

This was Hell. Richie was back in a living hell. He would’ve rather battled the clown again than suffer through this. But, this was the hell he was stuck in...and, as a wise man once said, when you’re going through hell, you just have to keep on going.

Find a way through it. Find a way to cope…

His therapist talked about doing things that made him happy. He worked very hard to keep her from finding out that nothing made him happy. Not anymore. It was as if his insides had been scooped out like a Halloween pumpkin. He felt fear or he felt pain or he felt nothing at all.

But that didn’t mean Eddie had to feel that way. 

Richie wasn’t getting any better and Eddie had made it clear he wasn’t leaving. 

There was only one thing left Richie could do… That he had to do. 

And maybe...maybe it’d fix him. Maybe it’d snap him back into place somehow, like resetting a broken bone.

He showered, then took a bath with one of those strongly-scented bath bombs Eddie kept buying him. He drank a whole bottle of wine, avoiding his anti-depressants and his pain meds and the countless other pills and tablets he’d been prescribed and weren’t supposed to be taken with alcohol. 

Richie bathed and got himself good and drunk. It wasn’t hard after being almost a year sober. Nine months… Nine months with barely more than a glass of wine a week. 

Oh, well. What Eddie didn’t know couldn’t kill him.

Richie ordered delivery, feeling far too hazy and woozy to cook. And he didn’t want Eddie to come home and cook. He fumbled through the apps on his phone, smiling lazily as memories slid through his brain while he tapped out a familiar order. Appetizers, entrees, dessert. All careful and safe for Eddie’s “sensitivities.” 

Delicate little Eddie. If only Mrs. K could see him now. She’d have a heart attack and die all over again. 

But despite how much he yapped about it, Richie really didn’t want to think about Mrs. K right now. 

He moved around the house, keeping himself on his feet while he waited for the food to arrive—tipsy and ready to be drunk. But he had to wait. He couldn’t get sloppy. No, no, no. That’d ruin everything. 

The food arrived a good fifteen minutes before Eddie was due to be home. Like clockwork whenever he went to the office. Whether it was for Richie’s benefit or his own, he wasn’t sure, but ever since the incident, whenever Eddie said he’d be home—he was on time. No more running late, no more running errands for his boss. If Eddie said seven, he was home at, or earlier than, seven.

So, a little after he heard the garage door open up, Richie swallowed down his little blue pill with a shot of bourbon, then chugged some water and cracked open a can of Coke Eddie wouldn’t want him to have to mask the smell. 

He’d dressed up a little—if a white undershirt and a half-buttoned Hawaiian shirt could be considered dressing up—and put on a touch of cologne. Just a little, because too much would aggravate Eddie’s asthma. 

He was nervous, but not jittery as he sat down in his usual seat at the dining room table. He listened to the door open, Eddie whistling to himself as he shut and locked the garage door before calling out Richie’s name.

“In here, babe,” Richie called, moving around the silverware he’d set out for their food—all nicely plated so it didn’t look like takeout. He hoped it wasn’t cold.

“Did you—Oh! Is this from Gino’s?” Eddie dropped his shoulder bag onto the floor in the doorway of the dining room, his face lighting up the way Richie had hoped it would when he laid eyes on the gluten-free pasta bowl set out for him. 

Shit tasted like cardboard, but Eddie liked it. 

“Yep. Eat it while it’s hot,” Richie said, his coordination a little off as he reached for his fork to start picking at his own pasta. He didn’t want to eat too much and dull the alcohol in his blood, but he didn’t want Eddie to worry about him either. 

“Thanks! This is just—This is great. This is awesome,” Eddie beamed, settling down into his chair after draping his suit jacket over the back. He looked so happy, the pleasure only increasing on his face as he helped himself to a forkful of fake noodles.

Cardboard, honest to God, and he smiled about it like it was the best he’d ever tasted. 

Good. That was good. Keep him smiling—get him full and happy. 

Date night, Richie told himself as he ate. It’s just another date night. No biggie. They used to do it all the time. All the time…

Richie asked him about work, asked him about his meeting and his commute. In return, Eddie asked how his day was—smiled at him as Richie lied about a pitch meeting and jokes he’d never written. 

“Nothing good enough to air, but I got some laughs.” He smiled at Eddie and Eddie beamed back at him, eyes hopeful—no idea his partner was drunk. Probably just thinking he was just having an off-day, a woozy day from his pills. 

That was fine. Woozy was something Richie could work with. 

After they finished eating, Richie tried to take their dishes into the kitchen only to nearly fall and drop one. Eddie, of course, was at his side in an instant—catching the plates and propping him up at the expense of his powder-blue dress shirt.

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” Richie stammered, leaning back against the wall while Eddie rinsed their dishes and tucked them into the dishwasher. 

“Don’t worry. I’m okay. Tide Pen will get this right out. _Right..._ out,” he said, digging through the drawer until he found it and scribbling it across the orange stain on his stomach. He did surgery on his shirt while Richie grappled with how lightheaded he was. Not good…

Not good.

He couldn’t make it upstairs to bed like this, and he wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol or the absence of his usual medications, or a combination of the two with the little blue bomber he’d popped. 

“You, uh—You wanna watch a movie?” Richie asked, looking over his shoulder at the living room. Maybe he could make it to the couch. Eddie probably wouldn’t want to fool around on the couch, but maybe Richie could coax him. It’d been a while. Maybe he’d get lucky.

“Sure! Let me just get some soap on this. You go ahead and pick.”

“You sure? If I pick it’s gonna be Mel Brooks.”

“Please not _History of the World...”_

“Then you’d better pick,” Richie called, taking the chance to stagger over to the couch while Eddie was distracted by his shirt. He was so dizzy, but his pill was doing its job. 

He pooled a blanket over his lap to hide it for the moment, being patient and playing it cool while Eddie changed into his lounge clothes—some baggy, black sweatpants and one of Richie’s old concert tees. 

Eddie picked _2001: A Space Odyssey,_ which had Richie repeating “Open the pod bay door, please, HAL,” again and again until Eddie was slapping his chest to get him to stop. Richie leaned in to kiss him, smiling when Eddie kissed back even though they both knew Eddie hated having their mouths touch. 

A kiss, Richie reminded himself, was the reason all of this had happened. Because he’d pressured Eddie for a kiss and his boyfriend told him no. 

He didn’t now, though.

Eddie kissed him, over and over until Richie couldn’t even pull away—not that he wanted to. Eddie had a hand on the back of his neck and was holding him gently in place, kissing and suckling his bottom lip until Richie gave him what he was asking for.

He parted his lips and let Eddie’s tongue swipe across his lower lip, a timid first attempt at a French kiss. Richie sighed into it, letting his eyes close while Eddie moaned against him. His tongue tentatively poked out just enough to brush against Eddie’s, expecting him to draw back—expecting a slap on the chest.

Instead, Eddie let out an eager little gasp and clambered into Richie’s lap, their mouths never separating more than it took to breathe. 

And it was getting harder and harder to breathe. Richie’s head was spinning, all his blood seeming to be draining out of his head to someplace lower. Eddie’s weight on his lap really, really doing it for him. It was hard to fly away to that awful, reeking alleyway when he had Eddie in his lap, making all sorts of little sounds while wiggling away to get friction. 

“I could—I could go get ready,” Eddie panted, his arms wrapped around Richie’s shoulders in a desperate, greedy hug. “Would you like that? I could make it quick. Or—Or we could do it in the shower? I could lay down a towel so my knees don’t bruise.”

The thought of fucking him doggy-style in their bathtub had Richie feeling faint again. 

“Would you like that, baby? Or… Or do you want me to do something for you? Hm? I’ve been… I’ve been practicing a little something.” He leaned back and fixed Richie with an eager, desperate stare—he was hungry for it, and it made Richie feel so guilty for not being able to give him what he’d needed for so long. “I could… I could do something for you,” Eddie said, his hand sliding down Richie’s chest to brush against the front of his jeans. Tentative, gentle… Cautious. 

Richie didn’t miss the way Eddie’s eyes flickered back to his, checking his reaction before palming him through his jeans. 

“My fingers don’t even come close to this big guy, but I could try,” Eddie said, smiling nervously. 

Richie pictured him, sucking his own fingers—thinking he was deep-throating them but really too nervous to make himself gag. Then, as if to torture him, his brain threw up an image of Eddie jabbing his fingers so far down his throat that he made himself sick—and then did it again and again in an attempt to make Richie happy.

But Eddie wouldn’t do that to himself. He wasn’t that far gone. He wasn’t the crazy one.

Richie shook his head and leaned in for another kiss to wash the images away. Eddie wriggled around in his lap until their hips were rocking together. The slightest brush of Eddie’s length against his own, even with what felt like a mountain of fabric between them, made Richie gasp. 

Richie slid his hand down Eddie’s hips to cup his ass, to pull him closer in order to thrust up against him. With each thrust, his head spun faster and faster. Eddie was moaning as loudly as if he were being fucked, not just caressed—not just held. 

Had Richie really denied him that much? It hurt like a knife, but the pill kept him going. 

Even so, he couldn’t make it upstairs with how dizzy he was—and he couldn’t let Eddie suck him off like he kept shyly offering, like a drunk virgin on prom night.

What the fuck was the plan? Richie couldn’t remember, but it wasn’t to rut against each other like schoolkids. He was so _dizzy._ Why was he so fucking _dizzy?_

“I’m gonna go get ready, okay? Okay, Richie? You wait right here.” Eddie kissed eagerly at his face and his neck—the corner of his mouth—and then he was gone. 

Richie was left laying on the couch, head spinning while the screen played out long, strange images—a fetus in space. The movie ended and Richie slapped around at the coffee table until he found the remote, backing up a few scenes so there was white noise playing while he waited for Eddie.

His pill was still working—probably too well. His boner didn’t wane, even when it took Eddie twenty minutes or more to hurry back downstairs to him.

Fuck, he was only wearing a towel with another folded over his arm. He had lube and two condoms—in case one broke, of course. 

“I, uh… I prepped, and everything,” Eddie said, climbing over him awkwardly on the couch.

“What, didn’t want to let me do the honors?” Richie asked, rubbing at Eddie’s hips. For all his eagerness, Eddie was still only at half-mast beneath his damp bath towel. 

“Didn’t want to keep you waiting then make you have to work for it, too,” Eddie said. He chuckled nervously, even as Richie started squeezing his ass. Slowly, he peeled away the bath towel, letting his palms glide over Eddie’s bare skin—fingers dipping down to brush against his hole, finding it slick. Open. Wanting. “Think we should, uh…switch positions? I can put the towel down… If you’re ready. No rush,” Eddie said, quickly pressing a kiss to Richie’s lips. “No rush.”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay,” Richie said, nodding his head a little and struggling to sit up. Moving made him that much more lightheaded, and he had to sit on the floor while Eddie laid out the towel. 

“Are you okay? What’s wrong? Does your head hurt?”

“Just—Just losing my head over your smokin’ hot bod,” Richie offered, earning another shy chuckle from Eddie (who absently caressed the deep scar on his chest at the mention of his body) before he settled himself down on the couch and Richie climbed over top of him.

This position, at least, felt familiar—and in a good way. He liked this. He liked being able and allowed to kiss Eddie while his boyfriend’s legs wrapped around his hips and pulled him down. Eddie, naked now, while Richie was still in his jeans.

“Kind of doing this out of order, aren’t we?” Richie teased, pulling his hands back to fumble with the button of his jeans. His hands were jerky and uncoordinated, and Eddie ended up needing to help him—though he did so with a smile on his face.

It took more effort than it should’ve for Richie to get his pants off, but he was thankful for the dizziness because nearly falling over stopped his train of thought from jumping back to the alleyway as he kicked his jeans and boxer briefs off his feet. 

“Are you sure you’re okay, Rich? Do you need some water?” Eddie asked, still looking worried even as Richie got on top of him again and shushed him. 

“Told you. You’re just too hot. It’s going to my head.” They kissed a little while longer, then Richie focused all his strength on reaching for the condom—taking the time to tease Eddie and ask if he wanted him to put both on just to be safe. It earned him a bratty roll of the eyes and a pout which lasted until Richie had slipped two, well-lubricated fingers inside of him. His eyes rolled alright, right back into his head with pleasure, his mouth falling open in a gasp of euphoria while his muscles fluttered around Richie’s fingers. 

“Oh, God! That’s so good—that feels so good,” Eddie moaned, his hips jerking a little bit as Richie moved his fingers in and out. 

“I’m barely even doing anything.” Richie couldn’t help but laugh, even as the dizziness made his temple bump repeatedly against the back couch cushion—unable to hold himself upright. He prayed Eddie didn’t notice. So far, it seemed like he hadn’t. 

“Still feels good, fucker,” Eddie choked his hips chasing Richie’s fingers when he pulled them back in order to slick himself up. “Oh, fuck.” Eddie’s head fell back against the throw pillow, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip while he watched Richie’s hands. “Oh, fuck, baby,” he whined, his legs spreading just a little bit more as Richie moved to line himself up.

The pill was working, his head was hazy but still in the moment—it was all good. 

Everything was going so, so good. Richie did his best to savor the image in front of him, trying his best to commit it to memory—the arches of Eddie’s hips, the dip of his stomach, his hot, flushed cock laying against the dark hairs along his belly. 

“So… So beautiful, baby,” Richie said, trying to keep his eyes from closing as he slowly inched inside. 

Eddie’s moans were more intoxicating than any booze, his pleasured little gasps getting Richie high. Or maybe that was just his head spinning around on his shoulders again. Eddie was so tight around him, squeezing him like a vise—a hot, slick vise. 

Richie’s vision went white as he bottomed out, a sharp hiss escaping him as he lowered himself down onto his elbows over Eddie’s body—allowing their chests to touch. He could feel Eddie’s breathing, could hear it all around him.

Eddie, he reminded himself. Eddie, Eddie. Not that man huffing and grunting. Not that man moaning and snarling at him. Eddie—sweet Eddie—moaning for him. It was Eddie’s chest, rising and falling rapidly beneath him. Not Richie’s spine arching against his attacker’s gut because he had nowhere else to go as he fought the pain. 

Eddie, Eddie… He was _safe._

Excruciating, searing pain.

_Safe._

So much pain...

“Richie?” 

Quickly, Richie kissed him before Eddie could ask if he was alright.

He was fine. He could _do_ this. He could make love to his partner. He was still useful enough for that. 

_“Are you crying, pretty boy? Bet you are.”_

“Fuck, you look so sexy,” Richie moaned, swallowing thickly as he dragged his eyes over every inch of Eddie he could see. He thrust into him, moving slow and gently. He didn’t want to hurt Eddie. He didn’t want to mess this up.

_“Go on. Let it out. Every bitch cries their first time.”_

That sick, all-encompassing cackle that Richie had heard for months in his dreams echoed around him now. It found him here, with Eddie.

He wasn’t safe. He wasn’t safe!

“Richie? Baby?” Eddie’s little whimper cut through the fog and Richie buried his face in the crook of Eddie’s neck, rocking his hips gently. He didn’t want to hurt him. Richie didn’t dare hurt him. Not Eddie, not here. 

He had… He had so much to _prove._

And he was so, so dizzy. 

“I think I… I think I lost my—my touch,” Richie said, trying to laugh as his vision went white, his hearing overwhelmed by the rushing of blood in his ears. 

He felt Eddie’s hands on his sides, and then nothing at all. 

Black, cold, nothingness.


	8. Chapter 8

Eddie felt his stomach drop as he pulled up into the driveway to find Richie sitting on the front steps, his head in his hands. He didn’t even look up as Eddie turned off the car, though his fingers seemed to tighten in his short, choppy hair the slightest bit. 

What this time, Eddie wondered, trying not to give in to the anger. It’d be too easy to get mad. It was too easy to let himself become hateful toward Richie. Anger was a stage of grief, Dr. Herschel had told him—but that didn’t mean he had a right to take it out on Richie.

And he’d come pretty fucking close to taking out every bit of grief and anger he had out on Richie two weeks ago. He’d gotten his hopes up that they were getting better—fell for the nice dinner and cozy evening together that Richie had set up. He let himself think that Richie was feeling healed enough and ready enough to try making love, only to find out that his partner had _not only_

a) skipped every dose of medication he was supposed to take that day, and 

b) got himself completely drunk in order to even _act_ comfortable enough to be intimate, and 

c) kept hidden from Eddie the fact that he’d become physically impotent since the attack and started taking Viagra, but also

d) decided the best course of action to close off an otherwise _perfect_ date night was to take the little pill while _completely wasted_ against the advice printed on the bottle.

Eddie went from being excited to nervous to crying down the phone line to a 911 operator because his boyfriend who had a previous _severe_ head injury collapsed on top of him—slamming that already damaged skull right into Eddie’s nose.

He just didn’t know how much more he was expected to take. He’d been humiliated, having to explain to EMTs and doctors what happened. He’d been horribly embarrassed trying to come up with a story to tell his coworkers about the bruises that had bloomed under his eyes from his broken nose. He’d had to walk through it all _again_ with Dr. Herschel and then Richie’s therapist. 

“Well, I just thought it’d make you happy.” That was all Richie wanted to say about it. Like he thought Richie putting his fucking health at risk for the sake of sex was what Eddie _wanted._

And now, coming home to find him sitting on the steps looking guilty of something even worse…!? 

Eddie didn’t even bother putting his car in the garage. If this went the way he felt it was about to, he was going to need to drive away somewhere to be alone. (Even though, in the back of his mind, he was reciting accident statistics revolving around emotional driving. Almost ten times more likely to be in an accident—and rates just went up from there if he started crying while he was at it.)

“Sunbathing usually requires you to take your clothes off, asshole,” Eddie said as he walked towards the front steps where Richie was finally lifting his head. 

“Fuck! I knew I was forgetting something,” Richie answered, getting up and moving as if to open the door.

Maybe he’d been waiting on a package or something, Eddie tried to tell himself. Maybe he’d just been waiting for Eddie to come home so he could get the door for him? Unlikely, but he did a lot of things now that made no fucking sense. Hell, maybe he just forgot he was even outside. 

Eddie, still teeming with agitation below the surface, tried to be optimistic up until the point that Richie straight up blocked him from touching the door.

“What is this? Can I go in? It’s hot—I want to change out of my suit.” He didn’t want to look Richie in the face, knowing already the expression that was going to be there.

“That’s—Yeah, see… Um, I can’t let you go in.” 

“Get out of my way.” He didn’t mean for it to come out as harsh as it did, but he was at his breaking point. He wouldn’t go so far as to push Richie to get him to move or to raise his voice, but he tried to pull Richie’s hand off the doorknob so he could turn it. “Look, I don’t care if you burnt up our fucking kitchen. I already knew it was going to happen. Just let me in so I can figure out who I need to call about it.”

“Kitchen? Eds, no—no! Stop! I—I need to tell you something. Just—Just let me explain. I just need to explain.” 

Finally, Eddie looked up at him, meeting his deep blue eyes and feeling none of the affection he usually did. He still loved Richie, so deeply—so very, very much—but he’d had enough. He tried and tried and tried to help him, to comfort him, to fix him—nothing worked. Richie lied and hid and deterred any effort Eddie made to give him help. 

Richie used to be the kind of man who just said it like it was. Yeah, he had his secrets—who didn’t—but he never _lied_ to Eddie before. He never spent so much time and effort hiding what he thought and how he felt. Now, after the mishap on the couch, all of his dishonesty—months’ and months’ worth of it—had just come pouring out. He’d lied so fucking much about his mental health just to get out of the hospital. Eddie felt like he barely even knew who Richie was.

“Say what you want to say. But can you make it quick? It’s like ninety fucking degrees.”

“I-I fucked up—”

“Don’t start with that. Just tell me what you did.”

“Okay,” Richie said, taking a deep breath and looking for a moment like he was about to just come out with it—and then went back to stammering. “Just—Just hear me out. Don’t get mad. I _promise_ I thought it through. I… I thought it through! I really did. I mean...as good as I can. You know my—”

“What the fuck did you do, Richie!?” Eddie snapped. Probably tried remodeling the bathroom on a whim. Or fucking took their refrigerator apart—something stupid and moronic like that because his impulse control was shit and he didn’t have anyone around to tell him otherwise. Maybe he knocked down a wall or two.

Or maybe it wasn’t that—maybe he got on Amazon and ordered a fuckton of new furniture. That wouldn’t be so bad.

Don’t give in to the rage, he reminded himself. Whatever happened, he could fix it. He’d add it to one of his lists and he’d fix it.

“I just… I just want you to understand,” Richie said, now looking at the ground—looking sad and hurt. He was shaking, and though Eddie was still irritated and exhausted and in need of a pain pill for his nose, Eddie felt a spark of sympathy go through his chest and he reached out to take one of Richie’s hands. 

“I will. I’m listening,” Eddie offered, meeting Richie’s gaze just long enough to show that he was trying to be sincere. “It’s just been a shitty day and it’s hot—it’s really hot. Can we please talk about it inside? I won’t be mad. I’ll keep my eyes closed if you’re afraid I’ll see something before you can explain.” 

Richie had that pained expression on his face again, like he wanted to blurt it out and just couldn’t. 

Words, Eddie remembered—forcing reason to tamp out the last of his anger. When Richie got stressed, he lost all of his words.

“Is it...a home renovation?” Eddie asked, feeling flooded with relief when Richie’s face twisted in confusion.

“What? No. And I didn’t, like, have to call the fire department or anything. I didn’t burn anything...well, that’s not really true. I fucked up our toaster, but that’s Pinterest’s fault.”

“What did you do to my toaster?” Eddie asked.

“You can’t really make grilled cheese in it. It _will_ catch on fire. But I put it out. First spark and—whoom! Out of the outlet, unplugged, I got the…the… Word. There’s a word.”

“Extinguisher,” Eddie offered, squeezing his eyes shut. The burnt toaster wasn’t even the _bad_ news yet.

“Yeah! That… It’s fine. I ordered a new one. Next Day Air… Sorry if you wanted toast in the morning. If you...are even here in the morning.” Richie swallowed hard and Eddie did his best to keep his composure, squeezing Richie’s hand to encourage him to keep going. “So… So I… Fuck, I knew it’d be hard, but not like...Popping Viagra with Alcohol, Hard-for-Four-Hours hard.” 

“Don’t ever bring that up again,” Eddie said, rolling his eyes. 

“Sorry. Fuck… I-I should’ve asked you. And I _didn’t._ And I’m sorry—and I’m saying sorry now because I _mean it,_ not ‘cause I’m sorry I’m about to get caught.”

“What? You got some guy in there? Some hot chick? What!? What is inside that you don’t want me to see?” Eddie asked, doubting completely that it was either of those things.

“A dog,” Richie said. And, for a second, he looked like a ten-year-old kid who found a stray and was about to beg his mom and dad to let him keep it. If that ten-year-old had stubble and quite a few shaving nicks on his left cheek. They looked infected… 

Add that to the list—

Did he just say _dog?_

“There’s a dog? Why is there a dog? I am _allergic_ to dogs,” Eddie said, watching the array of emotions cross Richie’s face.

Better than a house fire or renovations or any of the other worst case scenarios that had been in Eddie’s mind though. 

“It’s… I _did_ think about it.”

“Not very hard. Obviously!” Eddie snapped, hoping he came across as flabbergasted as he was and not pissed. Richie looked two steps from crying, and even if he cried for all kinds of things now, it didn’t make his tears any easier to take. 

“I don’t know! I don’t _know,_ Eds. My doctor talked about it at my session yesterday and...and I was talking to Steve this morning and...and I mentioned it and he mentioned it and...and then the studio—and then...then I don’t know what happened.”

What happened, as it turned out, was Richie’s therapist decided to honor his request to look into more “holistic” methods for treating his anxiety and depression. His hope was that all of his “problems in the bedroom” were because of his medications, and that he’d feel better if he could have that part of his life back—if he could _take_ that part of his life back. She told him absolutely no on stopping the pills all together, but offered a compromise. 

That compromise was an emotional support animal—or, even better, a service dog. A dog trained to help him on the days he wasn’t quite at one-hundred percent, as well as offer him comfort any other time. 

Richie told her it wasn’t possible because of Eddie’s allergy, but had spent all night thinking about it. Eddie remembered him being restless, tossing and turning in bed—oddly coming to bed at the same time as Eddie when he hardly did that anymore. As soon as Eddie left for work, Richie tried distracting himself—aka setting fire to the toaster—and then called Steve (to cry about burning up the toaster and figure out what to do about it) and blurted out what his therapist had said about the dog.

Turns out, the studio liked dogs—they liked the idea of Richie with a dog. They liked the idea of buying Richie an expensive dog to get him back to work and make more money off him. That was how Eddie saw it, anyway. Richie just thought his buddies were being nice. 

Eddie stood in the hot sun, listening to the choked, stammered, shaky story and all its little side-plots and tangents. He couldn’t argue. He couldn’t restate the obvious. Richie was already beating himself up over it and it wasn’t even really his fault.

Steve tricked him into thinking he was getting a toaster and he ended up coming back to their house with a dog instead. A dog that had failed its service training and wasn’t suitable for people with actual disabilities. 

“He’s just… He’s just enthusiastic,” Richie said, stumbling over the word a good two or three times.

“So it’s you...but a dog,” Eddie said, feeling light-headed and dehydrated. 

“Maybe,” Richie said, trying to smile but too afraid—visibly—that Eddie was about to lay into him.

“You, but makes me sneeze my face off.”

“It’s a...it’s a ‘doodle. If that helps. Steve said that would help.”

“It’s a poodle?” Eddie asked, cringing—thinking of the creepy little spindly-legged black mini poodles he saw on the AKC Dog Shows. 

“A… A ‘doodle. Golden—Uh, Goldendoodle… It’s cute. I got a picture. I was going to send you—but…” He was trying to get his phone out of his pocket and Eddie finally gave up.

“You’re cleaning up the poop. And if it pees in the house and I step in it, you’re doing the laundry for a month.” This time, when shouldered past Richie, the other man let him. 

Eddie found himself standing at the open door, looking in at the large, yellow Q-Tip of a dog that was sitting on the floor mat, wagging it’s tail. He felt very much the way he did back at the house on Neibolt, staring down at this weird, orange-ish dog that was panting and wagging away. 

“Is it gonna turn into a monster and maul me?” Eddie asked.

“God, I hope not,” Richie said, the look on his face seeming to imply he was having the same flashback. “He’s a lot bigger than a Pom. I kind of wanted a Pomeranian. Thought we could name it Penny. You know, short for Pen—”

“Shut up, Richie.” Eddie stepped into the house and let Richie close the door behind them. The dog lifted a foot and smacked it on the floor, but otherwise didn’t stand up. It’s whole body was wiggling along with its tail, as if fighting hard against the force keeping it sitting down.

Again, it lifted its foot and slapped it down until Richie moved to kneel in front of it to pet its sides and scratch its chest. Eddie was surprised it didn’t start licking his face or something. 

“Failed training, huh?” Eddie said, staring at the dog which stared up at him—waiting for pets and scratches like it wasn’t already getting attention from Richie.

“Yeah, but look at him! He’s such a good boy—yes, you’re a good boy!” Every time he said it, the damned thing barked. “Good boy!” 

“Is that his name now? Good Boy?” Yeah, it barked for him, too. Two short woof-woofs, as if saying ‘good boy’ to himself.

“Uh—I don’t know yet. I didn’t think you’d let me keep him. I didn’t get that far ahead.”

“It’s your house,” Eddie said, shrugging his shoulders before giving up and sitting on the floor beside the dog. It took one look at him—one long fucking look with its huge brown eyes—and licked him in the fucking face. “I changed my mind. I hate it—I hate it, take it back.” Eddie shuddered, even as Richie wiped off the dog-spit with the sleeve of his shirt. 

“What do you want to name him?”

“I’m not picking the name! It’s your dog.”

“It’s _our_ dog.”

“Yours, fucker. If I take partial ownership, that means I get stuck cleaning up the poop. I’m _not_ cleaning up its poop!” 

( ) ( ) ( )

Eddie did, in fact, end up naming their dog. (Richie insisted they refer to it as their dog so he didn’t have to feel so bad for having it.) The name he’d been appointed by the agency that sold him to Richie’s studio at a discount—because barking when someone called him ‘good boy’ was apparently grounds for termination when you were a working dog—was Hobo. 

Hobo! With a name like that, it was no wonder he’d failed.

The name Eddie gave him had a much better ring to it. 

Richie was going to call him Chewbacca, because he was orange-ish and made a lot of fun, unintelligible noises. Eddie argued that the dog looked nothing like Chewy and he wouldn’t stand for it—if he wanted a dog named Chewbacca, it needed to be bigger and browner and shaggier. 

“Dog looks like Chewbacca if Chewbacca went to the hair salon in the 70s. Bad bleach job and a perm,” Eddie argued while throwing popcorn to their dog who enjoyed catching it in mid-air. 

“Wow, are you writing my material for me?”

“Shut up. This thing eats like crazy. He’s a fuckin’ whale. Are you a whale? Are you a _whale!?_ I think you are!” And the higher he raised his voice, the more excited the dog got—stomping it’s huge foot like a judge pounding the gavel to bring order to the court. “A big old beluga. Big beluga whale, aren’t you? Yes, we should just call you Beluga.” This ended with the dog in Eddie’s lap and the bowl of popcorn back in Richie’s. 

Richie started calling him Beluga just to be obnoxious and the name kind of stuck. Most of the time, they just called him Blue. Sometimes, Richie called him Luga, which led to him calling the dog Loogie, and then Luigi—and then Mario. The strangers who saw him walk the dog around the streets probably thought he didn’t remember what his own dog’s name was. 

Eddie took to Blue a lot better than Richie had expected. He’d had about thirty panic attacks before Eddie even got home that day. He’d been afraid enough that he almost packed a bag to run away. The bag was, in fact, still on the floor by their dresser half-stuffed with weird odds and ends that Richie didn’t remember putting in it. He didn’t expect Steve to take him out for a toaster and bring him home with a dog—and no toaster.

He could’ve at _least_ stopped at Wal-Mart for a toaster. 

Instead, he stopped at a pet store so he could use the studio card to buy dog toys and beds and supplies. It was a nice hand out from the network, and all it cost was a couple Instagram photos and social media posts thanking #SoAndSo for his “Best Friend!” and a shout out to the organization that trained and sold the service dogs. (Also, moving forward, any interviews where he mentioned Blue, he was contractually obligated to mention the organization and to thank SoAndSo at the network. He had a card to remind him what names to say.)

His fans loved Blue. Lots of them replied to his posts with photos of their own service dogs which made him feel a little more connected—though he did point out that his hadn’t quite earned his bright red vest. He shared a video about it, just a little thing he filmed in the kitchen one day while Eddie was at work, showing why Beluga wasn’t Working Dog Material. 

There were three key phrases (apart from “Wanna go on a walk,” every owner’s nightmare) that made him bark like crazy: Good Boy, Bed Time, and Doritos. Whoever hurt this dog with Doritos deserved a special place in Hell. 

Richie’s thirty second clip consisted of him filming Blue while grabbing random things in his kitchen.

“Huh… What’s for lunch. We’ve got...pasta?” He shook the box and panned to Blue who just stared at him. “No?” He panned back to the cupboard where he grabbed a tin of fish. “How about...tuna?” Back to Blue. Nothing. “Shit, well… All I’ve got left is this half-eaten bag of Doritos—”

He didn’t even need to touch the bag before Beluga started woof-woof-woofing his way up through the octaves and squirming around while stomping his foot as if to say, “I object! I object!”

Life didn’t get magically better just because of Blue, but Richie couldn’t deny that his days at home felt a hell of a lot less worthless. Instead of staring at a blank notepad or sleeping for hours on the couch to escape from the vast nothingness that his life had become, he got up at the same time as Eddie to take Blue out for his first walk while Eddie showered. Morning walks were the best because it was still cool and Richie didn’t have to force Blue into the little heat-protection booties Eddie had bought him to save his paws from the hot sidewalks. If he got dizzy during walks, Blue always seemed to know and would slow down or come to a stop. Sometimes, Richie had to sit on the pavement next to him and pet him a while until he started to feel good enough to walk back home. 

He didn’t feel like an invalid when he had to sit down while walking Blue. He felt like a guy who probably liked his dog a little too much, but Blue was such a cute thing that hardly anyone could possibly blame him. A lot of women he walked past seemed to agree—and Blue was definitely a lady killer. Too bad Richie was gay...and taken...and damaged, but, hey, a phone number tucked into Blue’s collar was still a talking point. Eddie didn’t like it one bit, but all he could do was pout and keep his head on Richie’s shoulder the rest of that evening as if staking his claim.

Richie’s afternoons were spent playing fetch and tug-of-war which he got a little better at each and every day. Physical therapy had nothing on a Goldendoodle who didn’t understand why Dad wouldn’t hold onto the rope tight enough to play. When he did need to take a break or nap—daytime fatigue still made him its bitch—Blue would lay on the floor next to the couch and wouldn’t leave for anything. He did the same at night when Richie was asleep in bed. 

At first, Eddie refused to allow him on the bed which was perfectly fine. He was a big old whale, fitting of his name, and Richie was worried one of them would get pushed off the bed by the other. However, after having Blue repeatedly jump up in the middle of the night to interrupt Richie’s nightmares, he was invited to stay. 

Richie would hardly even remember what he’d been dreaming before he was woken up by Blue tonguing his neck and snorting in his ear. He felt like he was woken up twenty times a night to piss and another forty by his dog, but somehow woke up feeling better rested. When he got enough sleep, his memory didn’t fail him as much. Some things were forever gone with the wind and he still forgot what he went into different rooms for at least twice a day, but he remembered to eat and he remembered to go to his appointments. If he started to forget maybe on purpose to take his pills, Blue would sit in front of the bathroom door and bark until he went into the room to get them—and if he tried to ignore the big fat whale in the room, Beluga would hunt him down and grab his pant leg or stomp on his foot with one big, curly paw, and make him go upstairs and take his meds.

He tried this with Eddie, too, but soon seemed to realize that there were way too many pills taken at way too many different times to keep up with his schedule when he was home. Blue’s best trick for Eddie was running and grabbing his aspirator off the nightstand whenever Eddie would laugh while watching TV. 

That ended up being a video on Richie’s social media as well—though he had to make sure no one could see Eddie’s face. Camera shy motherfucker. 

Richie hadn’t had a full-blown panic attack at home since the day he was given Blue. Traffic and doctors' offices were a completely different situation and he always found himself feeling disconnected and weird when he got back to his house and his dog—or his Eddie, if Eddie was working from home. It was a good thing, his therapist told him. It was good he was recognizing that feeling of disconnect as abnormal instead of feeding into it, craving it. 

He hated that she had a point. 

Feeling cut off from everything had, for a long time, felt a lot better than being present and dealing with any of it. All he felt, for so, so long, was fear and pain and sorrow and self-pity and anger. There wasn’t room in him for anything else. It was hard to be happy because he knew the next pit-fall was waiting just around the corner. Another nightmare. Another flashback. Another day that passed where he couldn’t remember how he ended up in his kitchen—scared to death because he didn’t know what day it was or where Eddie was. 

Now, Richie was finally figuring out how to balance it all. His days weren’t just black holes of loneliness and being a burden. He was Father of Beluga—who sometimes couldn’t remember where his phone was and had a friend who would bring it to him if he asked, albeit covered in drool. He was a “Dog Dad” as the mug Eddie had jokingly bought him stated. He was a little bit more of a person, and a little more accepting of his own shortcomings. He might not be able to go into town or to the grocery store without getting overwhelmed and wanting to die, but he was getting there. A little at a time.

The anniversary of his assault came and went—horribly. (Richie didn’t want to talk about it.)

Four months had gone by with Beluga at his side, and Richie was off two of his six medications. As he’d hoped, kicking the antidepressants helped fix at least part of his issues below the belt. That is to say, he didn’t need the little blue bombers to pitch a tent, but it didn’t mean what went up stayed up. In the time since he’d been assaulted, Richie Tozier had managed two orgasms. Both with a dog outside the bathroom door stomping its foot in protest. Neither with Eddie. He wasn’t ready to face down that blunder again. He didn’t even know if Eddie would trust him with it…

Trust, which had been the forefront of their entire relationship, had been shattered—and that was his fault, and his mess to clean up.

Which he wanted to do. He really, really did. He thought he could, maybe. If Eddie hadn’t secretly written him off as an intimate partner. Richie had anxieties that Eddie had started seeing someone else on the side, honestly believing it some days that Eddie worked late and came home past dark. Eddie had a right to get laid, he told himself. It was his own fault that they weren’t intimate anymore—for the cigarettes, for the magnificent fuck-up where he blacked out balls deep and broke Eddie’s nose with his forehead. Still, it was _Eddie._ Eddie who shuddered if someone sneezed on the television or a stranger walked too close to him. He didn’t like other people’s germs, but Richie’s and Beluga’s were okay. 

Maybe he’d been faithful. Hopefully. Richie would never ask to find out.

“Babe?” Richie said, lounging on his pool float while Eddie treaded water beside him. 

“What?” Eddie asked, moving a little closer in order to clutch onto the fin of Richie’s shark-shaped float and pull him over. 

“If Loogie brings you your inhaler every time you laugh, and he brings me the remote if I cry...what’s he going to do when we start having sex?” It was the only way he could think of to broach the topic.

“Uh… That depends,” Eddie said, looking at Richie sort of anxiously as he wiped his bangs back from his face. “Normal sex or kinky sex?”

“Ooo, good point. He’ll probably get territorial if he sees you in _your_ collar.”

“Is that… Is that what you want?” Eddie asked, looking at him half-intrigued and half like he’d seen a ghost.

“My dog to get jealous of you?”

“Me in my collar?” Eddie asked, parroting Richie’s befuddled tone.

“Oh! Oh. I mean, no—I mean, if you wanted to, I wouldn’t be opposed.” Richie lowered his prescription sunglasses, over-acting the flirtatious gesture by trying to take them off and bite the stem only to have Eddie shove his pool float and cause him to drop them into the water. “Fuck! I can’t see—you know I can’t see! Eddie!”

“Don’t write checks with your mouth you can’t cash with your ass, asshole,” Eddie muttered—his expression completely unreadable without the aid of Richie’s glasses—before diving under the water and coming up with the water-speckled sunglasses. 

“Is this how flies see? So many different Eddies,” Richie complained, peering around through the horribly spotted glasses. He took a good amount of time blowing on the lenses, acting like an air-dryer at a car wash, to get the beads of water off his lenses since he didn’t have anything dry to wipe them on.

“Now, were you being serious or not?” Eddie asked, pulling and pushing Richie’s pool float slowly back and forth. 

“About Beluga bringing us weird shit in bed?” 

“Rich...”

“Yeah… I mean, I’m up—well, not at the moment, but—”

“Richie...”

“Yes, I was serious,” Richie said, rolling his eyes. Okay, okay. He deserved the skepticism this time. 

“Like, you want to talk about moving _toward_ that or you want to...to go upstairs?” Eddie was looking at him with so much worry and affection. He looked a little hopeful, maybe even a small bit excited, but he was worried too—and not just about having his nose broken again. 

“Either one?” Richie offered, head staring to feel a bit fuzzy as Eddie looked at him. Nervous, he told himself. He was just feeling nervous and that was okay. Eddie was probably nervous, too. 

“Okay… Well, lets get out of the pool and shower off and see where it goes from there?” Eddie asked, shrugging and doing his best impression of indifferent. 

“Sure. Yeah! Sounds grea—”

“Did you take your meds today?” Eddie asked, suddenly going from into it to skeptical. 

“Yes. Promise. Loogie goes nuts if I don’t. You know that.”

“Yeah, but you could just pretend to take them and he wouldn’t know. He’s a fucking dog. He chases the ball you didn’t throw.” Fair point, Richie had to give him that.

“Yes, I promise.”

“Viagra?” Eddie asked, looking almost timid when he asked it.

“Nah. I’m using the holistic approach. Now I just watch granny porn to—” In an instant, his shark float was flipped over and Richie was splashing around like a drowned rat, trying to find his sunglasses which fell off his face again. After letting him struggle for a while, Eddie finally helped him and pushed them back onto his face—beaded with water again, making them effectively useless. “Jesus! To answer your question, _no!”_ Richie said, laughing a little as he shook the water from his hair. 

Beluga, who was at the edge of the pool as close to Richie as he could get, shook as well—as if copying his dad—before stomping his feet and barking.

“And no alcohol if you did?” Eddie asked, fussing with the long curls of Richie’s hair—dyed in all the places it had grown in gray. 

“Only if that smoothie you made me had rum in it,” Richie offered, wishing they were at a shallower end of the pool. He could stand up just fine, but Eddie was still treading water. All Richie wanted was to pull him in and kiss him, maybe shut him up—maybe start a fight—but he didn’t want to make his boyfriend drown. “Seriously though, I think we should lay on the couch, and you should moan really loud and we can see what Loogie does.”

“‘Loogie’ is probably going to jump on top of us because he’ll think you’re hurting me. He’s not coming in the bedroom.”

“Aw… Well, as long as you’re coming, I’m happy,” Richie teased, his heart pounding so hard he felt dizzy. Behind him, Blue barked and stomped his foot. 

“Don’t be crude,” Eddie said, even though he was grinning about as much as Richie and—yes!—leaned in for a short peck on the lips. He’d do more if Richie brushed his teeth, too.

Together, they splashed their way out of the pool, dragging Richie’s float ashore to lay in the shade. Blue walked at his side as he made his way back to his beach towel, drying himself haphazardly while Eddie did his slow, methodical pat-down. Eddie really hadn’t been much for swimming when he first moved to LA. He seemed to have gotten all of that out of his system when they were kids, splashing around the in the quarry. But, once he realized he could control the cleanliness of his own pool, he was happy to swim at home—and Richie was happy to ogle him in his swim trunks. There was just something about him when his whole body was drenched in water and smelled faintly of chlorine. 

Spankings were also a hell of a lot more effective on wet skin, but all Richie managed as they were hurrying up to their bedroom was one slap to Eddie’s ass that startled him so much he almost fell down.

As soon as the bedroom door was shut, Blue started barking—startled from Eddie stumbling on the stairs and the sort-of-running that they had done. In the bedroom, Eddie stripped off his trunks and tossed them in the plastic basket he’d set out for their wet clothes and towels. The summer hamper, Richie thought of it as. Richie’s joined them, his heart beating even harder as he followed Eddie into the bathroom. They’d been naked in front of each other a million times, even after the accident. Still, it somehow left him feeling so nervous—like it was the first time, like he was afraid Eddie would see something he didn’t like. 

It gave him a little reassurance when the first thing that happened upon stepping into the bathroom was his toothbrush being slapped into his hand. 

“Brush,” Eddie said, smiling, before turning his focus to the shower. He seemed so excited—so genuinely happy. Richie was nervous, but he felt it too. 

Happy.

Blue was barking still, and slamming his foot into the closed door.

Happy. 

Richie found out why Eddie was so adamant about him brushing his teeth. As soon as he got in the shower, his partner was kissing him—holding him still by his face and really giving it his all. Before, he would barely entertain a peck on the lips, and now he was doing his best impression of a French kiss—for a guy who had no idea how to do it. 

That was okay; Richie could teach him. Richie would oh so gladly teach him, and he’d admit that it felt even better having the reigns back in his hands. 

Beluga had stopped barking his head off at some point and the water was starting to get cold as they rinsed suds off their skin in between soft pecks and proper kisses. Soon, Eddie had his back to the wall and his fingers digging hard into Richie’s hips, moaning and letting out shrill little gasps as Richie swirled their tongues or nipped his bottom lip. 

“I have to—Oh! I have to prep. Baby, I have to—I have to prep!” Eddie moaned, turning his face away from their kiss. His face was completely flushed and he was still grinning, even as Richie gave him one last kiss—which _Eddie_ deepened before finally kicking him out of the bathroom. 

While Eddie got himself all nice and clean, inside and out, Richie donned a pair of boxers to go comfort Blue—who he felt kind of bad for, all locked out of the room where his people were. He gave Blue a treat and played one game of tug before drinking some water and going upstairs to wait properly on the bed. He couldn’t decide whether to have the boxers on or off, and ended up walking circles around their bedroom trying to help work out his nerves and make up his mind.

Somehow, that translated into him wearing Eddie’s collar—a big no-no that honestly could have led to a fight, a _real_ fight—just to have something else to be hyper-focused on besides his underwear. He didn’t even remember putting it on, but somehow, when Eddie got out of the shower, there it was.

Maybe his subconscious was trying to sabotage this. Maybe he forgot what he was doing once it was in his hands. He’d put it on once before and had Eddie fly off the wall in a fucking heartbroken tantrum, because it was _his_ and Richie had bought it for _him_ and _not_ himself. It was _his_ collar, _his, his, his!_ He’d been in tears when he sobbed it out. “That’s mine! It’s mine! It’s _mine!_ You _gave_ that to me! Why are you taking it _away!?”_

Eddie had been seriously fucking hurt to see Richie wearing it, so why the hell did Richie put it on _again?_

“That’s mine, you know,” Eddie said, still fluffing his hair dry with a towel while Richie sat on the bed, cross-legged and trying not to fidget. He’d laid out their lube and a condom and one of their smaller toys, thinking that might be a way to ease into it or finish if he found he couldn’t keep his tent pitched. 

“Do you wanna...take it off me?” Richie asked, failing to come up with anything more flirty or more funny. He was relieved, though, to see Eddie hadn’t attributed any negative meaning to him putting it on this time.

Eddie dropped his towel into the summer hamper and crawled onto the bed, moving slowly and in a way that showed off all his lean muscle and sharp angles. 

“I think we can keep it on,” Eddie said, crawling right into Richie’s lap and hooking his arms around Richie’s shoulders. “But, just for the record, it looks better on me.”

“Well, I had it _made_ for you, so...yeah. I would hope so.”

He got a kiss for his efforts, something that still left him with a small bit of surprise and butterflies in his stomach. He could _do_ this. He was _okay._

Eddie giggled at some thought that went through his head that he didn’t share, trying to stifle it back with more kisses as they slowly ended up in a heap together on the mattress. Making out like high schoolers, Richie thought. Eddie was rutting against his thigh and Richie was running his hands over whatever he could touch until he had Eddie on his back. Eddie kept one finger in the loop of Richie’s—well, his own, really—collar, holding him in place for more kisses. It was a simple thing, a small gesture, but it sent shivers of pleasure up Richie’s spine. Somehow, it kept him grounded. Maybe that’s why he did it. Maybe that was what he needed, some physical tether to keep him tied to planet Earth—to his bed, and not that alley; to Eddie, and not that man.

“Mm, blue,” Eddie murmured, his lips still pressed to Richie’s.

“Blue? Blue like our dog? Or...fuck, I haven’t driven in ages, but I’m pretty sure that’s not a color we use.”

“No! Blue—if you get a collar,” Eddie said, yanking on the metal loop again, “it needs to be blue and match your eyes.”

“Oh! Oh—Oh, okay. Okay,” Richie said, settling back into it—smiling into their next kiss.

“Because if I ever catch you in my collar again, you’re doing dishes for the next six years. I don’t care if you have the flu and can’t stand up, dishes. Six years. This is _my_ collar,” Eddie snapped. If he’d sounded angrier, if he’d sounded even slightly possessive or cruel in any way, Richie might’ve broken from it. But instead, Eddie was looking at him with sad eyes and honest to God pouting, like Richie was a mean Big Kid who just claimed all the toys in the sandbox for himself. _“Mine.”_

“Yours,” Richie agreed, laughing when Eddie yanked on the loop again for one final kiss. 

And, though it took a grand total of one and a half hours, Richie managed to turn his two orgasms that year into four.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who are wondering, he put on Eddie's collar in a subconscious attempt to feel safe--because Eddie always feels safe and trusts Richie when he wears it. He's not trying to take away the collar's significance in their past lifestyle from Eddie, he just wants something to make him feel secure and doesn't quite know how to express it just yet. 
> 
> This story was supposed to be a lot heavier than it has turned out to be. But I think that's okay. I hope that's okay with you guys! The world got really dark, really fast and if I took the story that way, I don't think my brain would ever recover. So hopefully fluff with some angst instead of angst with some fluff is acceptable. I think these boys deserve some TLC.
> 
> Also, Richie would totally call his dog Loogie and I will die on this hill.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter is short, but it is fluffy. I needed to see these two boys...three boys...being fluffy some more. Are we over the heavy angst? I think so... For now, anyway. I want to see my boys happy.

Eddie awoke to sunlight and warm blankets, Richie’s soft snoring alongside Beluga’s familiar nose whistle, and his heavy collar snug around his neck. He’d gently stolen it back after Richie had finished (the _first time,_ first of _two_ times!) and put it where it belonged, on himself. 

Last night, Richie had fastened the buckle for him and sealed it with a soft kiss, like he always used to—the memory still safe and sound. Snug on the second notch, the third if he was in for punishment, and a warm, gentle kiss to the dip of his sternum over his scar. Only this time Eddie nuzzled the top of Richie’s head for his attention and kissed him on the mouth—warm and soft. 

“Sorry. Sorry, that was my worst performance yet, I think,” Richie said once he pulled back from the kiss. “I didn’t even see the fireworks like last time. You know, all the bright, flashy lights before I—”

“Shut up,” Eddie said, rolling his eyes and pulling Richie back in. He was starting to like this kissing thing—once he learned how to ignore the little voice in his head that whined about bacteria and germs. Richie’s lips were so soft and warm, and the rough scrape of stubble on the sensitive skin of his face was invigorating. The rough hidden in the sweet. 

“Fuck, lasted a whole two seconds. Like the first time I screwed your mom.”

“Don’t make me slap the rest of your brains out,” Eddie snapped. They were still snuggled up, Richie panting and sweaty—embarrassed but satisfied. 

Eddie snuggled him and kissed him until, as if by some God-given miracle, he felt Richie’s length stiffen against his bare thigh. It had been so long since he’d gotten to feel it—so long he had almost forgotten all the times he woke up annoyed and frustrated because Richie was poking him with it or grinding it into him in order to wake him up. 

“I don’t think I’ll be able to—to finish, Eds.” The words came out as a whimper once Richie realized Eddie was reaching for another condom. “Eds—Eddie, don’t make me disappoint you twice.”

“Disappoint me? Rich, you’re being a fucking tease. Now come on. Show me you’re not all talk—show me, baby. Come on. Come on, baby.” Eddie pulled him into a few more little kisses and finally coaxed his partner back inside. 

It wasn’t their best sex or the hottest. It was clumsy and awkward and Richie’s confidence was all but shot, but it was _Richie._ It was Richie’s hand squeezing his hip, Richie’s lips pressed against his own whenever they didn’t break apart to moan or gasp. It was Richie fucking into him at just the right angle to tip him over the edge. It was something Eddie had thought for certain he had lost forever, and he was never, _ever_ going to take it for granted again.

Eddie hated having to leave the bed to get washed up afterwards. He couldn’t get back fast enough. He brought water for himself and Richie and let Beluga into the room, then snuggled up where he belonged and was asleep before his head even hit the pillow. He woke up twice to go pee, three times when Richie got up to pee, and once more when Beluga woke Richie up halfway through the night before his budding nightmare could take its toll. 

Still, he woke up in the morning feeling rested and warm and cozy. He wished he could be a little closer, but Beluga was between his legs and Richie’s, keeping them apart. 

Eddie lounged on the bed, relishing the weight of his collar and eating up Richie’s gentle snoring—loving it. He wanted to pretend that it was all behind them now. He wanted to pretend that this would fix everything. They’d made love. Richie’s confidence would grow a little more and maybe they could do it again—maybe even today! Oh, how easy it would be to convince himself that one soft, passionate night could fix everything.

It was a step in the right direction, but it wouldn’t heal all the wounds. But they had time.

Eddie thought this as he ran his fingers through the tight curls on the nape of Richie’s neck. He stroked them, then massaged the base of Richie’s neck until his partner let out a sleepy little sigh and rolled over. He was smiling as he stretched and squirmed to get comfy again facing Eddie while the big, fat Beluga whale between them stretched out his long, curly legs. 

“Morning,” Eddie whispered, leaning over for a peck on the lips. Just a peck, because no one had brushed their teeth just yet.

What Richie said in response was a bunch of incoherent grunts and moans as he smiled and shuffled around under the blankets. This got Blue to lift his head and then slowly drag himself up toward the head of the bed, nosing along between their bodies until his cold nose was under Eddie’s chin.

“Uh-oh,” Richie said, sounding groggy as fuck as he wiggled to get an arm over Blue’s body, effectively spooning the dog.

“What?”

“Cock-blocked by the ‘doodle. Told you he’d get possessive. He sees you in that collar and says, ‘Back off, Mom. I’m his dog. Not you.’”

“Call me mom again and see what happens,” Eddie mumbled, ruffling Blue’s ears and allowing the dog to lick his neck once or twice before pushing him back just a little. “Okay, okay, big guy. Good morning. Yes, good morning.” Blue’s big, curly tail began to thump against Richie’s thigh and he slowly rolled onto his back and began panting as both his dog dads paid attention to him. 

He got his morning snuggles, then Eddie and Richie both squirmed out of bed and into the shower. They’d bathed the night before, but in Eddie’s opinion you could never be too clean after sex. And, also in Eddie’s opinion, there was nothing better than clean, wet, shower snuggles—especially since a certain Beluga whale did not care for water and wouldn’t bother them. 

Richie was still moving sluggishly, even when they were simply hugging and making out under the jet of water. 

“You feeling okay?” Eddie asked, trying to keep his voice mellow and calm so if Richie was feeling sick, he wouldn’t feel guilty about it.

“Mn… Dizzy, but good. So good. Need some electrolytes after that workout last night.” He chuckled a little and smiled, seeming in good spirits despite his woozy voice. Eddie needed to get him out of the shower and somewhere safer, but if he rushed, Richie would get self-conscious.

“Yeah? Was I—Well, I mean, was it good?”

“Were _you_ good? Is that what you were about to ask?” Richie laughed at him, his voice warm and deep and just how Eddie always remembered it being after they’d made love. There was something about it, something affectionate and inviting that made Eddie want to curl up in his arms and never move again. 

“Maybe,” Eddie answered, chuckling a little self-consciously. He’d been a little beside himself the night before, just caught up in the fact that it was _Richie_ touching him and not himself, that it was _Richie_ kissing him and pleasuring him and pulling at the loop on his collar every now and then like he used to. He was so focused on all of that, he was afraid he might’ve forgotten to do some of his moves and tricks to make it feel better for Richie, too. 

“You were perfect. I’m the one with no coordination who can barely keep it up long enough to nut let alone to get you off—”

“Shut up,” Eddie whined. “You were perfect. I missed you.” They kissed again and Richie kept smiling into it though his balance was starting to waver. Eddie helped him finish washing up, then made him sit on the edge of the tub in order to dry him off so he wouldn’t fall and get hurt. 

After they were dressed, Eddie helped Richie down the stairs to sit at the kitchen table for a little while. He ate a little bowl of oatmeal with fresh banana slices on top and seemed to perk up after that.

They walked Blue together, holding hands and talking about old memories—the ski trip with the Losers, their little day-cations together to the Joshua Tree Forest and Palm Springs. As they were making it back home, Richie suggested they should start planning for another vacation. Maybe rent a cabin in Washington or rent a ranch somewhere in Big Sky country. As long as it was pet friendly and Blue could come, Richie said he’d be happy to go just about anywhere if it meant they could be alone together.

Eddie really liked the sound of that.

They ate a proper breakfast together while Blue snoozed with his head on Eddie’s foot, slobbering on his sock though he looked so happy and tired that Eddie left him to it. As soon as the dishes were cleared away by Richie (who seemed unsteady on his feet again), they went upstairs so Richie could take his meds and Eddie could change his sock. Blue jumped up on the bed and let out a loud snort, seeming disappointed that his people weren’t coming back to bed. His coat was getting shaggy again and he needed a trip to the groomers. Maybe Richie would want to come along this time. They could get coffee and snacks from the cafe down the block from the “pet spa.” Most expensive groomer in all of LA, Eddie bet. But only the best for Beluga.

That would be a nice way to spend next weekend… Maybe they could go to the pet store and pick out some new toys and treats for him. 

“We should see if the groomer can get Blue in next week,” Eddie said, smiling at Richie who was sitting on the bed scratching Blue’s ear.

“Aw, but he looks so cute all shaggy. He always looks like a weird camel when we shave him.” Blue barked, his quiet ‘woo-woo’ noise, when Richie said ‘camel.’ “Yeah? Do you think so? Yeah? A camel? Are you a _camel?”_

And a louder, more eager Woo-Woo! from the Beluga whale. 

“Yeah, you’re a camel.”

A foot stomp and a quieter, affirmative woo-woo that faded into a playful growl. 

“I don’t see why he failed doggy boot camp just for barking. What’s wrong with a dog that answers you?” Richie asked, smiling at Eddie so much his left eye was almost completely scrunched shut. It made Eddie’s chest clench. 

“Some people like peace and quiet. Not us, obviously. But some people,” Eddie scoffed, doing everything in his power not to cry like he felt he was dangerously close to doing. How long had it been since he’d really seen Richie this...happy? This content? No ghost of pain or fear in his eyes, no nervous twitch at the corner of his mouth like his smile was forced? It was a gift. It was a fucking gift from God. 

“I don’t know. You used to kick me out of the room for talking too much. I’m pretty sure you’re one of those ‘people,’” Richie said, chuckling just a little as Blue leapt off the bed and ran out into the hallway to grab one of his tug toys. (He was always so careful to put his toys in different piles...right at the top of the steps where anyone could trip over them.)

“If I really wanted peace and quiet I wouldn’t have started dating you,” Eddie said, coming over to the bed and sitting beside him. He stole a quick kiss, not missing the way Richie was smiling at him. When Blue came back into the room, he and Richie fell into a game of tug. “Use your left hand,” Eddie prompted as Blue worked hard to pull the toy Richie had seized in his right fist.

“But my left hand doesn’t have as good of a grip,” Richie complained.

“I know. That’s why you need to use it. C’mon. If you’re not going to keep up with PT, you can do this for me.”

“Fine,” Richie sighed, switching the tug toy to his left hand. Blue was always eager to put the toy back into Richie’s hand whenever he ripped it from his grip, but seemed frustrated that they’d switched hands. He stomped his curly foot whenever Richie’s hand spasmed and let go or his strength gave out. They played a few left-handed rounds before Richie passed the toy to Eddie who pretended he sucked at it so Blue would get mad at him and stomp his feet more.

Slowly, he and Richie worked their way back downstairs—with Blue in the lead, stuffed squeaky toy in tow—and sat cuddled up together on the couch. They watched some comedy movie on TV, so badly edited and censored that half the jokes made no sense. Part of the ending credit song seemed to have the same chord progression as “Beth” by Kiss, which led to Richie repeatedly singing that piece of the song over and over again to himself to the point Eddie really thought he might kill the other man before working up the nerve to ask him to stop. 

“Do you think… Do you think I have that album? I don’t… I don’t remember. I don’t...” Richie’s sentence fizzled out as he got up and walked from the living room into their more official “parlor” where the two of them only went to get away from one another—Eddie if he wanted to read in peace, and Richie if he wanted to stare off into space without being interrupted. It was the room where Eddie kept his shelves of “boring” books and Richie kept his shelves upon shelves upon shelves of records and CDs and cassette tapes. There were even a few eight track tapes mixed in there. 

This time, Eddie followed him. Richie loved his collection and had barely touched it or even looked at it since the attack. He’d dusted it once, maybe, in the year since it happened, but it used to be a nightly ritual that he came into this room to pick out an album to put on. He had a magnificent collection, including four records that had stood the test of time—albums he’d had since he and Eddie had been kids. 

“What… What album was that? Don’t tell me! Don’t… Just don’t. I gotta… Hm...” Richie was staring at the shelves, wringing his hands while Blue sat at his feet and looked up at him. Eddie stayed back by the doorway, leaning against it the way he wished he could go and lean against Richie’s shoulder. He didn’t want to distract him though. Richie was always so happy if he could recall some strange bit of information. 

“I honestly don’t know. So you’re on your own, Mr. DJ.”

“D...J? _Destroyer!_ Ah, you gave it away!”

“How the fuck did _I_ give it away!?” Eddie asked. His voice must’ve been on just the right side of grumpy because it got Blue to turn and look at him over his shoulder and snort. “Excuse you,” Eddie said, giving Blue the same disapproving look the dog was giving him.

“You gave me the first letter,” Richie whined, sliding out a few albums to find the one he needed. 

“Well, it wasn’t intentional.”

“Let’s see… Okay, _Beth’s_ on the B-Side, so...” Richie started poking around with his record player, looking at it like he’d never seen it before and messing with the dials before all at once seeming to recall what it was he was meant to be doing. 

Blue seemed to have very little interest in the popping and cracking of the needle against the vinyl before _Flaming Youth_ filled up the little parlor. He wandered off to go slurp at his water bowl while Richie was still smiling down at his turntable. 

For a moment, he was who he had always been. The sunlight coming in through the windows had cast a romantic glow around him and all Eddie could think to do was sneakily take out his cell phone from his pocket and take a photo...or five. New lock screen image, cropped and saved, all before Richie was turning up the volume and plodding over to hug him like _Flaming Youth_ was a song to slow dance to.

“Well, I can’t say my uniform was leather, but I was definitely some kind of flaming youth,” Richie said, right before pressing a kiss to Eddie’s cheek and pulling away. “Remember those shorts you used to wear?” He asked this as he was nearly in the kitchen—almost impossibly to hear over the music.

“My what? Shorts?” Like he didn’t already know.

“Hm?”

“Don’t ‘hm’ me! Are you going on about my shorts again? They were _normal!_ Everybody had shorts like that!”

Richie was digging out Blue’s wet food from the cabinet, getting their curly whale all excited. 

“Right. I definitely remember… Yeah, my memory is shot but I don’t remember a single other person in shorts that short. Not even Bev. And trust me, if it was walking, I was looking.”

“Well, I remember trying to wear shorts to go running in and you paddled me. So if you like that kind of thing, you shot yourself in the foot.”

“Did I?” Richie asked, pausing with the lid partially off the can—looking at Eddie so baffled, so innocent. Blue was a whimpering mess, waving one paw in the air as if afraid that stomping in protest would have the can of food taken away.

“Yeah. You did. Are you going to feed the whale? He’s about to keel over.” Eddie smiled as Richie snapped back to attention, apologizing to Blue while dumping out his food into a clean bowl and setting it on his decorative, fire-hydrant and bone patterned mat. 

“Do you have those shorts?”

“Somewhere, yeah,” Eddie said, arms crossed over his chest as he leaned in the doorway again. 

“I might need to see them. Do a little inspection, you know? See if they pass the dress code,” Richie was smiling at him again, looking a little flirtatious. 

“I could go find them if you want,” Eddie said, trying not to show how into it was—no matter what it led to. Kissing, heavy petting, hand-jobs, blowjobs, a whole fucking _scene._ He’d take it. 

_Shout it Out Loud_ was coming to an end, and Eddie kept his eyes on Richie’s expression as the familiar notes of _Beth_ started to play. Lit up like a fucking Christmas tree—his attention span working against Eddie’s favor as Richie went back to the task of rinsing the dog food can and taking off the label in order to put the tin into the recycling bin and the paper label into the trash. All the while, he was singing poorly along with the music, looking as happy as he had been all morning. 

It was as if nothing bad had ever happened…

( ) ( ) ( )

Richie was starting to come to grips (well, not grips, really—because his grip on things sucked) with the changes he’d undergone, in regards to both his physical and mental state. 

Eighteen months. It had been eighteen months. Maybe more. He stopped letting himself think of the dates or the days or weeks that passed. The attack had happened, but that was a long time ago. With Blue around, the past stayed in the past a lot more than it used it. That helped. It helped having a Good Boy around to keep the skeletons locked away in the closet. 

Physically, his weight fluctuated non-stop. Maybe it was the meds, maybe it was stress-eating, maybe it was being too lazy or too unmotivated to get up and eat when Eddie wasn’t home to cook for him. Richie didn’t know, but he now had “fat” pants and “normal” pants. His shirts all fit about the same since tight-fitting shirts had never really been his style. He might’ve cared a little more about that aspect of his ever-changing body if Eddie didn’t seem to cuddle and touch just the slightest bit more whenever Richie was carrying the extra weight. It could’ve all been in his head, but it really didn’t seem all that coincidental.

And, unbeknownst to Eddie and his therapist (and Eddie’s therapist, who Richie was sometimes dragged along to see), Richie had started to keep a journal. It was supposed to be a continuation of his old joke books, but dissolved more into a scribbled down diary of good days and bad days. He re-read entries sometimes when his focus would allow it, and made connections between strange things, like how the days Eddie spoiled him with fast food led to him having dizzy spells and more fatigue the following day, and how whenever he put on a little extra fluff, Eddie would hug up on him more in bed.

It saddened him to lose the Taco Bell indefinitely (because as tasty as it was, it wasn’t worth falling in the shower and scaring himself and his dog and his partner), but Eddie’s homemade Crunchwraps were _almost_ as good. Similar to the fast food, soda also made him generally more sluggish than he ever would have noticed without the journal and Richie was secretly proud of himself for figuring it out.

Along with his ever-changing weight, Richie was becoming accustomed to needing to dye his hair (or, rather, having Eddie dye his hair for him so he wouldn’t dye the sink and the counter and the tub) to hide grays he didn’t have before. He also had more wrinkles than he remembered, but that also could’ve just been from the fact that he was no longer in his prime. Ugh, fifty… Fifty was coming on fast. He shuddered at the thought. It wasn’t fair Eddie still passed for late thirties and he was over here looking anywhere from fifty-five to ninety. 

His hands sometimes didn’t work like he wanted them to, and he still sometimes found himself crying over tiny things, or crying for no reason at all besides his face changing it’s setting from Normal to Leaking. 

Quietly, since the one year mark of the attack, Richie had settled into these new changes. Quietly, privately, he accepted that his career as he remembered it was over. It was done. There was no bringing it back. There was no way to guarantee he wouldn’t faint under the stage lights, or have a dizzy spell and need to stop, or cry for no fucking reason at all. It would make his fans uncomfortable even if he could get his team behind him enough to force a tour. And even if they did, he couldn’t _memorize_ anything. That part of his brain was forever paused. He remembered what he remembered before his brains were bashed out, and getting anything new to stick was horrible. He barely knew his therapist’s name or what order to take his medications (Eddie had pasted little notes to the bottles that showed time and quantity to help). There was no way in hell he could remember a set list of jokes he wrote let alone ones he didn’t…

It was all just...gone. The career he’d built was gone. 

Thoughts filtered through his head like sand through spread fingers. He’d get an idea to do something and almost immediately rush to get the project started with zero planning because he was afraid he’d forget or lose interest. Eddie told him all the time that he’d lost impulse control, and Richie didn’t have the heart to tell him that that wasn’t even the half of it. Oh, he could stop himself if he wanted to—but to have just one little thing to do, one thing to try to focus on, made him feel so much more alive. That was part of why he liked his secret journal so much—it gave him a little project to work on throughout the day. He tried to get five pages filled a day. Sometimes he had more, sometimes less, but he always tried to write something each day.

He wasn’t as independent as he used to be, either. His focus had gotten better, his attention span now strong enough to watch full movies without getting lost when before he couldn’t even recall the start of a thirty-minute episode. However, he didn’t trust himself to drive. That was just too much multitasking. It was too risky, and he didn’t want to wreck with Blue in the car—or kill some innocent family out getting ice cream.

If he went anywhere, he had to take pet-friendly Ubers or rely on Eddie and old studio friends. He counted on Eddie for so much that it was hard not to feel like a burden. If it weren’t for the way Eddie seemed to delight in it… If Eddie didn’t smile and hum to himself while cooking, if he didn’t seem to like immaculately folding laundry and delight in bleaching bath tubs and sinks, Richie might’ve let that sinking feeling of being a burden drag him all the way under. At least Richie could take care of Blue. They could go on walks and he had all kinds of reminders for his feeding schedule and treat schedule. Richie could take care of Blue if Eddie could take care of him. 

Yes, Richie had come to terms with the idea that he was no longer the man he had spent the past forty-odd years building himself into. It hurt. It hurt a lot more than he wanted it to, and in many ways felt like a death...like he’d died and was trying to learn to live a new life with the same cast of characters buzzing around him.

It felt an awful lot like cleaning up someone else’s mess. 

And wasn’t that what it was?

One Richie Tozier had gotten mad at one Eddie Kaspbrak for denying him a kiss because he had a cold, so he’d stormed out and smoked cigarettes and got himself killed. And now a second Richie Tozier was trying to remember how he got here and why he wanted to be here while a second Eddie Kaspbrak slaved away at work and then came home to do more of the same. 

It was rough, and there were days Richie got out of bed when Eddie did just to wait for him to leave so he could lay on the couch and cry himself back to sleep while Blue laid on top of him and tried to make him better—sometimes hitting him in the face with the remote control for the television in an attempt to cheer him up.

Sometimes, it would strike him at night when he and Eddie were laying together in bed and he’d just start to cry. Blue would get worked up and Eddie would end up having to shoo him off the bed just so he could be the big spoon for a little bit without Blue between them. He cried over so many things, sometimes even nothing, and Eddie would just be there for him—lose sleep over him. Some nights he wouldn’t ever really be able to say what was wrong; other times, he would manage to say a few things and Eddie would untangle the thoughts for him and help calm him down. 

Eddie could turn a tearful, choked, “I’m not going anywhere,” into this loving, supportive spiel about how his stand-up career might be over, but there were so many other things he could still do. 

“You have to find something, Baby,” Eddie had told him that night. “Because I’m tired of working Hollywood Boulevard to pay the mortgage.” It had gotten Richie to laugh somehow, even with how absurd it was. Eddie? A hooker? Yeah, right. It would be impossible, even if Richie’s money was close to running out. (Which it wasn’t, even with his medical bills and lack of new income.)

They cuddled, and Richie calmed down—forgetting why he was so distraught almost as quickly as he had become distraught. He jotted it in his journal the next day, then pondered over it when he could.

He couldn’t do stand-up anymore, but what could he do? Movies? Could he remember brief lines if someone gave him cue cards or spoon-fed them to him? There was a lot less pressure when things weren’t live… Perhaps he could exercise his memory the way he did his arms and legs and have more things stick, if he really applied himself and really tried.

Okay, so maybe movies.

His ideas ranged from simple, like part-time flower shop attendant because he’d had a forty minute conversation with a florist while picking up flowers for Eddie on their anniversary, or opinion piece columnist because Eddie always told him he was opinionated and people might think his take on things was funny. More complicated ideas were movie star and actor, photographer, and novelist.

He thought up the novelist idea as a way to tease Bill—saying his endings would be better, even if he couldn’t focus to write a conclusive paragraph let alone a conclusive chapter.

That did get him thinking though… 

Books. He definitely didn’t want to write some tell-all about himself or try turning the Losers collective nightmare into a franchise like Bill was slowly doing, but he could write about other things.

Sappy romances? Nah. Absurd comedies? 

He had given a couple of skits to Steve who passed them along to the network who passed them to the writers who butchered them and put them on air. He still had it in him, it was just a matter of finding a medium he could work with.

Richie was still mulling it all over while he sat on the couch with Blue asleep on his left foot and Eddie fading in and out of a nap with his head in his lap. He’d worked late—very late, presumably on Hollywood Blvd—and was blocking out the dim light in the room by pushing his face into Richie’s stomach. He was wearing his “fat” pants, so it was to be expected. No matter how many weird noises his stomach made, Eddie didn’t move. He was “enjoying the Dad Bod” and Richie needed to “stop being self-conscious and leave me alone about it.”

“Write kids’ books about you and Blue,” Eddie mumbled, sounding grumpy and sleepy. He was probably sick of Richie’s rambling interrupting his attempts to snooze. “And have Bill illustrate it. You’ll sell a billion fucking copies and go on a book tour or something… Just keep the F-word out of it.”

“But ‘shit’ is okay, right?”

“Yeah. I mean, two-year-olds love shit. You can even have a whole book called _That Time I Said I’d Clean Blue’s Shit and Lied About It.”_

“Okay, that was one week and I was having a bad week. Don’t get mad.” He must’ve sounded just sad enough about it because Eddie let out a low sigh and nuzzled his stomach before kissing it—weirdo—and saying he was sorry.

“Really… Write kids’ books about Blue. He could be friends with an actual service dog and it’d be the kind of educational, inclusive shit moms love. And take me with you on your book tours… ‘Cause I’d worry. And be bored here by myself. I always _hated_ when you went on tour.”

“Really?” Richie had always kind of thought Eddie liked the solitude, but the fact that Eddie even rolled over enough to fix Richie with an exhausted, ‘are you fucking kidding me?’ stare had his heart fluttering in his chest. 

“No. I like sitting in an empty house with no one blabbing at me or singing _Beth_ nine hundred times in a row. It’s great.”

“It really sounds great,” Richie said, managing to keep a straight face for all of two seconds before a chuckle broke out and Eddie was rolling his eyes, and rolling back over to bury his face in Richie’s stomach.

After a few moments, it really seemed Eddie had gone to sleep and Richie distracted himself with his cell phone, not quite tired enough to see if Eddie wanted to go up to bed. He texted Steve, floating the idea of books past him—not expecting a real answer or even a quick one. He was the last person Steve was worried about dealing with. He had other clients to worry about now. Clients who actually made him money.

 _“Books?”_ A lot quicker than Richie expected.

“Kid books. About Blue and me and ‘REAL’ service dogs < \- Eddie.”

_“I love it! Tell Eddie thank you. You have a new career. If you don’t say Fuck on every page.”_

“I’ll need a good editor… You don’t think it’s dumb?”

_“Why would I? Fallon has a book. Leno, Romano, Seinfeld, Carrey. They all have books. Tozier can have a book.”_

It made Richie’s heart leap a bit and he felt just confident enough to float the idea past Bill, since he couldn’t think of anyone else he would want to draw for him. Bill was busy, but he might take on a side project for a friend—especially if Richie played the near-death-experience card.

_“That’s a great idea, Rich! I would love to be a part of it. Send me some pages when you’re ready. I will NOT draw dog dick for you though. Give that up now.”_

“How could you even think I think about my son that way!?!?” 

_“It’s you… I’m going to leave you to think long and hard on that one.”  
“And, yes, pun intended, Trashmouth.”_

Richie giggled and it woke up Eddie who was finally awake enough to say he wanted to go to bed. When he sat up, Richie took the chance to kiss him, smiling as Eddie leaned into it—and then settled against his shoulder and shut his eyes again.

“I want to go to bed.”

“We will. Just gotta let Blue out first. Okay?”

“Mmhm,” Eddie hummed, ready to fall asleep at the drop of a hat. 

Hearing his name partnered with ‘out’ had Blue sitting up with his ears perked. His huge eyes were focused on Richie, his tail wagging nervously.

“Yeah? You gotta...go outside?” 

A big, loud Woo-Woo! and Blue was sprinting for the door. Eddie leaned away so Richie could get up to let him outside. He stood by the door and waited, looking at the sky where it was painted red from the city lights in the distance. A moment later and Eddie’s arms were wrapping around his hips and squeezing him, his cheek on Richie’s shoulder. Richie tipped his head against Eddie’s and let out a soft sigh. 

Aside from the tingling in his fingertips and a little flicker of lights behind his eyes, Richie almost felt...normal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you're all doing okay and staying safe! I hope to have more of this written to that is going more into our boys getting accustomed to each other again (in all kinds of fun ways). Richie is finally taking some steps toward healing instead of just slogging through the denial/depression stage of his grief. He just wants to work through it on his own and has been pretty quietly resentful about having to rely on/needing help. Hope to see you again soon!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I disappeared off the face of the planet. I had a few plot ideas I needed to work out before settling on one for this chapter/the remainder of the story. Hopefully it doesn't disappoint after such a long, long, long delay.

Eddie really couldn’t believe it. Well, he kind of could.

When he got home from work, Richie was sitting in their living room with Steve and Bill (hello, why had no one told him Bill was coming out to LA?) and four boxes of hardback copies of Richie’s little book with more piles of them stacked up around Bill and Richie’s feet. It had been almost eight months in the making and Eddie was almost in shock at how quickly it was finished and edited, and just...put together. Bill must’ve carved out a lot of extra time to help with the illustrations, making them just the right level of cartoon-y and realistic to appeal to children. (And probably pulled a few strings to get it published so quickly, too. Not that having two household names on the cover made that too awful hard.)

It was a quirky little book that was definitely attune to Richie’s sense of humor, but heavily filtered for small kids. (Lots of poop shenanigans, lots of ‘all work and no play’ jokes.) The early drags really had Eddie feeling that it was Richie’s interpretation of _their_ relationship. Richie was very much like Blue in the book, and Eddie was very much like Axle the “Real Service Dog.” Blue was a dog who felt like a failure but knew how to have fun and Axle was a goody-two-shoes whose life lacked color. 

Literally. Axle was a fluffy, big white dog who, in the end, decides to get his paws dirty for the sake of fun. 

The original idea was to have him get covered in dyes from one of the many Color Run events in the city, but the agent and editor Richie had asked him if he wanted or meant to have a rainbow pride connotation end the story. No, he decided. He really didn’t want to deal with religious nutjob backlash on top of his release (but he and Bill drew up the pages anyway for their own secret “Special Gay Edition”). 

Basically, Blue was a depressed mess of a dog who was useful despite the world telling him he couldn’t be and Axle was a workaholic who needed to learn to lighten up and live a little. 

So… It was Richie and Eddie. And Eddie hoped the whole word didn’t see it as plainly as he did. Hopefully they would just see Richie’s rejected service dog whose picture adorned the back cover and leave it at that.

“Jesus, did you buy all the copies?” Eddie asked, not sure what else to say as he walked into the mess. Blue, seated on the floor by Richie’s feet, let out a happy woo-woo! and stomped his foot. 

“Huh? Oh! No—I sign these ones,” Richie said. Eddie could honestly see the gears turning in his head as he tried to process that Eddie had been joking with him. “I’m—Steve’s helping me set up a… A...” He looked between Steve and Bill, hoping one of them would cue him in on the words he was forgetting.

“A signing,” Bill offered with a smile. “We’re going to do a signing together to celebrate the release and—”

_“And_ guess who’s got a spot on _Ellen_ next month to make the announcement?” Steve had to tack on, needing to feel useful and included. Always. 

“Really?” Eddie asked, looking to Richie with a smile. “You’re going to be on _Ellen?”_

“Isn’t that cool? It’s—It’s better lit and stuff so I’m hoping it doesn’t mess with me like the late night stuff did. Like, how the audience is all dark? I think it messed with my vision. But, uh… Yeah! So… So I’m signing these—well, Bill and I. We’re signing a couple boxes of these to give away to the audience and crew and stuff, then for some other events, too. There’s… There’s more,” Richie said, looking a little self-conscious, like he thought Eddie was about to yell at him for the clutter. And, yeah, he might’ve if it weren’t for Richie’s work. 

Actual _work!_

It’d been so long since Richie had had something to do—something to craft—and to have this tiny book idea manifest into something so...tangible, so real, it made Eddie’s heart soar higher than it had in well over a year.

Well, now it was probably past two years. But Eddie didn’t really want to keep track. The anniversary of that awful day… It haunted his as much as Richie. The anniversary of the day he’d ruined their lives—the day his stupid germaphobia put his partner in that horrible, awful place. 

“Hopefully I get a signed copy,” Eddie said, leaning down for a kiss. Richie was still focused on his book so the kiss landed more on the corner of his mouth than his lips, but Richie was smiling in his cute, lopsided way as Eddie pulled back.

“For you, Eds, it’s gonna be fifteen ninety-nine,” Bill said, clicking his Sharpie pen as he set the book he’d been signing aside into a pile separate from the boxes.

“Is that the price they landed on?” He already knew, Richie had told him probably a dozen times and never remembered saying it, but Richie lit up every time he told the story of how he’d gotten the publishing house to lower the price. 

“Yeah! Had to fight tooth and nail for it, but… I mean, look at this thing,” Richie said, fanning through the square, colored pages of the little hardback book. “Twenty-five bucks? Who’d pay twenty-five bucks for this? Even my mom wouldn’t have paid twenty-five bucks for this and she’s my fuckin’ mom, man.”

“You’re selling us short, Trashmouth,” Bill said, patting him on the shoulder. “Two household names? We should be sellin’ ‘em for thirty.”

“No, dude. Fifteen’s fine. Pisses me off they had to tack on the ninety-nine cents. Like, what the fuck is up with that? Why’s everything gotta be _plus_ ninety-nine cents? People have to do enough math figuring out the taxes on this shit—why do we gotta make it even more complicated?”

“Anything for an extra buck,” Steve chimed in. 

Blue let out a low woo-woo at that and slapped his paw down on Richie’s knee, commanding his human’s attention. Richie smiled at him and started scratching his ear with his groggy left hand.

“I think he’s saying the ninety-nine cents goes to him,” Bill said, looking at Richie and laughing. He reached over to start petting Blue as well and the dog licked his palm happily while enjoying all the extra love. 

“I’ll have that put in the contract. Ninety-nine cents of every copy sold goes to Beluga Tozier-Kaspbrak,” Steve joked, having to be involved.

“Wait… Tozier-Kaspbrak? I mean, I appreciate my name going first because I’m the hot shit, but Kaspbrak-Tozier has a better ring to it, don’t you think?” Richie looked from Steve to Bill, then to Eddie with a shit-eating grin on his face. “What do you think, Eds?”

“Traditionally speaking, the dad’s last name goes first. And you’re the dad, so—”

“So, wait… Eddie, you’re a woman?” Richie asked, getting Bill to chuckle as Eddie rolled his eyes.

“You know what I meant.”

“We’re both his dads,” Richie argued. 

“Alright, Dad. I’m going to let you and Steve figure out the legal stuff while I go get changed,” Eddie said, backing toward the doorway, planning to head upstairs only to have Richie start squirming around on the couch, trying to find a way to untangle himself from his piles and boxes of books. 

“Wait! I’ll come with you! Wait, just… Uh, hang on.”

“Be careful,” Eddie said, watching the chaos as it unfolded. Blue didn’t want to get out of the way of Richie’s feet and Richie was too uncoordinated and blind to really maneuver his way around the piles and boxes without losing his balance. Bill ended up catching him when he did nearly topple over, causing Eddie’s heart to damned near stop in his chest—and it was still pounding even as Richie joked in a southern belle accent that Big Strong Billy was his heroic savior. 

“Alright, Rich. Come on. Pay attention before you step on Beluga’s tail.”

“You know, Bill, you don’t have to keep calling him Beluga. His name is Blue. I mean—unless this whole time you’ve been wanting me to call you William. Shit, you have, haven’t you? That’s why it’s all spelled out on your books, isn’t it?” 

Bill was still supporting Richie by his arm when they reached Eddie’s side, Blue following behind with his tail low—in business mode. 

“You alright?” Eddie asked, getting an arm around Richie’s shoulders as best he could with their difference in height and leading him toward the stairs. 

“Dizzy. I stood up and got dizzy,” Richie said, rubbing his temple. 

“Well, there was a lot going on around your feet. You gotta be careful, hon, or the rest of your brains are gonna spill out.”

“There’s not much of ‘em left, but you’re probably right. I need to sit.” They’d made it up one stair together and Richie was turning around to sit himself down, Blue coming up between his legs and touching their noses together. Richie smiled at him and scratched his ears, breathing heavily as if moving from the couch to the stairs exhausted him.

Too much excitement for one day, Eddie thought. He’d probably tried to help moving in those heavy boxes of books and exerted himself. Bill would’ve known to stop him, but what about Steve?

“Babe, I’m gonna get changed, okay? I’ll meet you back here in five—”

“Don’t! No, I’ll come with you. I’ll come. Hang on.” Richie was twisting around looking for the hand rail and then grabbing for it, even as Blue barked at him in warning. 

“No! No, no. Don’t rush! Don’t rush. I’ll sit. I’ll wait.” Eddie sat down—partially to block Richie’s path and prevent him from making his way any further upstairs, encouraging him to sit his ass back down.

“Okay. Probably a good idea. Fuck, I’m dizzy.”

“Are you sure you’re okay? Did you take all your meds today?”

“Ah, I was late on one. Got distracted by all the...all things.” Richie had turned his attention back to Blue, but was still breathing heavily. Probably even heavier now that he’d tried standing again before his body was ready. “I don’t know how I expect to go on this fuckin’ show, man. I-I’m gonna make a fucking fool of myself in front of fuckin’ Ellen DeGeneres and the whole fuckin’ world.”

“No you’re not. You’re going to be fine. The lights are gonna be good. Blue’s gonna be there. You’re seated, right? She’s not gonna have you playing stupid games?”

Richie turned to look at him over his shoulder, looking guilty and shy all at once. Eddie could literally feel his face start to droop with disappointment.

“Richie...”

“It’s just a bowling thing. No impact, they said. I just gotta throw a foam ball at some foam pins and try to outdo some people from the audience.”

“Yeah, but knowing you, you’ll get way too into it and lean in and fall or something...”

“But that’s why Blue’s there. He’ll hold onto my pant leg or something. Maybe I’ll, like, get a leash and tie it around my neck and he can be my support—or, no, no! Better yet, I’ll wear _your_ collar—”

“I already told you if you ever wore my collar again, you’re doing dishes for the next six years,” Eddie warned. 

“Ah, shit… That’s right. So when are you buying me one? I gotta do this thing next month. Chop-chop.”

“Just promise me you’ll be safe.”

“Well… Well, I kinda hoped you’d go… I hoped you’d go with me. I-I know it’s daytime and you work, but all the others I was… It was me and Steve and… I think I did so bad because, you know… You weren’t there with me.”

“Rich, if you want me there, I’m there. No question. Tell me the day, I’ll take PTO. I’ll be there.”

Richie looked back at him again, looking happy and worried and relieved all at once. 

It took about ten minutes for him to rest enough to make it upstairs, and then once they had, Richie laid himself down across their bed to rest. He kept his eyes open though, and had them trained on Eddie as he undressed. It was kind of hard to miss, but he wasn’t sure what Richie hoped to accomplish with Bill and Steve both waiting on them downstairs. 

“Bill might have to bring the rest of those books up here, huh?” Eddie asked, making sure to smile so the suggestion—the offer, the idea—didn’t come off too harsh. 

“No… I just need to lay down for a minute and...I kinda wanted to get you alone.”

“Yeah? What for?” Eddie asked, dressed now in only his socks, briefs, and undershirt. He smiled for Richie who looked so woozy laying there on the bed with his right hand hanging off the edge to keep petting Blue who watched him closely. 

“C’mon. Lay down with me,” Richie said, rubbing the mattress beside him. 

“You know Bill’s still downstairs,” Eddie said, coming over to the bed regardless and crawling across it lay on his stomach, propped up on his elbows, at Richie’s side.

“I know… I just wanted to talk to you a minute.” His voice was quiet and his blue eyes seemed to search Eddie’s face as he spoke. 

“Is everything okay?” Eddie asked, reaching over to brush over some of the dark curls framing Richie’s face. Freshly dyed a week ago. Deep brown this time, instead of his usual black. It made him look younger when he remembered or tried (or managed) to shave the salt and pepper stubble off his face. 

Richie looked Eddie in the eye, unblinking, then let out a heavy sigh and focused on the ceiling instead.

“Cops came by this morning… Before Bill and Steve.”

“Cops? Why?” Eddie asked, heart clenching in his chest. 

“So… They, um… They-They think they caught the guy.”

“They do? They—how? You—I mean… There were no leads. There was no evidence, no nothing,” Eddie stammered, his mind overheating as the gears in his brain clanged together and stopped turning. There was _no evidence,_ they’d said. Nothing usable, anyway. No leads, no signs, no witnesses. 

“Apparently, um…” Richie paused and cleared his throat, his blue eyes now rimmed with tears and shiny wet. “Apparently, he’s smashed a few more people’s heads in… In Portland, of all places. Portland, Oregon… And, the last guy got away and actually ID’d the fucker.”

“They—What makes them think it’s him? I mean, he’s in Oregon? What was—”

“MO’s all the same. Guys all look the same. And the dude they got, he, uh...” Richie paused then, reaching up to rub his eyes beneath the lenses of his glasses. “He was in town for a fuckin’ wedding that weekend. A fuckin’ wedding, man.” He sniffed loudly and Eddie was frozen, too in shock to move to console him or touch him. All day he’d been walking around with that in his chest? Signing stupid books with Bill and Steve chattering at him? “I don’t know what the fuck to do… They want me to go in and do a fucking line up and see if I recognize him, but I didn’t see his _face._ I-I didn’t see his face and...and if I do go, if ID him, then my name’s in the case and everybody’s gonna fuckin’ know, Eds. Everyone’s gonna fuckin’ know it wasn’t a mugging.”

“If the guy in Oregon can ID him then there’s no reason you should have to. Richie, you don’t have to go. He’s going to go to jail regardless. The others… If they can link him, he murdered them… He murdered them?”

“Yeah. Three that they know about. Then the two that got away—me and that other guy.” Richie was weeping quietly, his face coated in tears as he lowered his hands. Blue let out a loud whine and tried jumping on the bed only to have Richie nudge him back onto the floor. “Eddie, everyone’s gonna find out. There’s press in Oregon. They’re… They’re all gonna find out and I’m going to go on the fuckin’ _Ellen_ show and be a goddamned laughingstock.”

“No! No, Richie that’s not gonna happen. Okay? Listen to me. Listen to me… They caught they guy. That’s _good._ That means we can sleep at night know he’s not fucking hiding around some corner waiting to jump out now, okay? They caught him and you can just...say no. Say you’re not participating and if...if the media tries to make assumptions or, or the cops leak anything, then...then that’s what Steve’s for, right? Th-The network? They can hush it up. I’m sure of it. No one’s going to know.” 

Eddie scooted closer on the bed, taking one of Richie’s hands into his own and squeezing it. He wished Richie had called him. He wished… He wished he weren’t hearing this now before having to go back downstairs and put on a fucking brave face for Bill and Steve. God, he couldn’t even imagine how horrible Richie must be feeling—having had to keep that face on all day.

“He killed, like, three people, Eddie. How the hell did he fuck up on me?” 

“Don’t… Don’t say that. Richie, don’t say that—”

“Say what? That it wouldn’t be better if he’d spattered _all_ my fuckin’ brains out? Because I don’t know about _you,_ Eddie, but two years ago, I didn’t see myself writing fucking kids books about a shitty service dog who was too stupid to make the cut.”

“And, what? Dead is better? You think I’d rather be sleeping here by myself? That things would’ve been better if you died in that alley? If they found you that way?” The thought made Eddie start to cry, and he clamped down on Richie’s hand when the other man tried to pull it away. Blue had jumped onto the bed and was whining as he pawed carefully at Richie’s thigh, looking between his favorite person and Eddie. “It would’ve killed me if you died, Richie. It… You’re the love of my life—”

“Eddie, I’m not the same man you fell in love with. Do you think I’m so stupid I don’t realize that? Yeah, I’m lucky I can still suck air and form a sentence, but… I’m not… I’m not even half the man I was.”

He looked so hurt… He looked as raw and drained and defeated as he had that awful morning on the balcony—when Eddie had woken up to find him so badly, badly hurt. Eddie clutched Richie’s hand harder and moved to press as close as he could with Blue in the way—still whining and pawing at his person. He leaned down to press a kiss to Richie’s forehead, then to his left temple and his wet cheek. 

“You’re every bit the man I fell in love with...”

“We hardly even fuck. How’s that the same man?” Richie asked, sniffing loudly. Whether or not he was trying to make a valid argument or just a joke, Eddie wasn’t sure. But he didn’t like any of it.

“If our roles were reversed… If it were me, would you still love me just the same? If I couldn’t—”

“It’s not about you, Eds.”

“You would… And _I_ do. I don’t care about your profession or—or your memory or your concentration or the fact that your left hand doesn’t fucking work right. You’re my _partner._ I love _you._ I don’t—I don’t care about the rest. I know this is stressful for you and hard on you, but I’m _here._ I’m not going anywhere and I’m not _sorry_ you survived. I’d rather pick up the pieces a million times than bury you once.”

Richie had his eyes squeezed shut in a silent grimace, as if the words hurt him. He wanted Eddie to give up on him, Eddie realized. He wanted Eddie to cave, to agree that things would be better if he were dead so he could let go...quit trying. Eddie couldn’t let that happen.

He pulled Richie’s hand, still tightly clenched in his own, up to his lips and kissed his knuckles. Richie let out a sad, low sigh and pulled his fingers from Eddie’s—not pulling away like Eddie expected him to do, but reaching up to stroke his cheek. 

“If it gets out, Babe… I’m fucking ruined.”

“No. No, Honey, no. It won’t get out and...and if it did, it’s not the kind of thing they focus on. Maybe if you were a hot chick in your twenties, but no one...no one wants to hear about that.” God, for Richie’s sake, Eddie hoped that was true. 

“You mean I can… I can just stay the washed-up, has been, faggot comedian with brain damage instead of the washed-up, has been, ass-raped faggot comedian with brain damage?” Richie asked, lips twitching with a smile he couldn’t even try to force to stick. 

“Washed-up, gay children’s book author with brain damage works fine, too,” Eddie sniffled, having to compete with Blue’s low, urgent woos. “And—And Blue’s a _great_ dog. You wouldn’t do well with an actual service dog. It’d bore you to death. So don’t...don’t call him stupid.”

“He’s not stupid,” Richie agreed, sniffing as well as he finally reached up to scratch Blue behind his ears—forcing on a sad, weak smile for him as he did. “Yeah, you’re smarter than me, aren’t ya, boy? Yeah…” 

Blue hit him in the face with his paw, knocking Richie’s glasses askew for a moment before Eddie could correct them.

“Shit…”

“What?” Eddie asked, moving to lay on his side so he could wrap his arms around Richie’s—cuddling as close as Blue would let him.

“Bill’s gonna fuckin’ kill me.”

“Why? Because you’ve been upstairs with me too long? He’s just gonna think we’re fucking.”

“Nah, he knows I’m louder than that.”

“How the fuck would he know?” Eddie asked, nuzzling into Richie’s shoulder as Blue laid down on Richie’s chest—mistaking his giant, curly body for a lapdog-sized one apparently. 

“You weren’t around for that part of high school,” Richie said.

“Whatever...” Bill and Steve were still down there, though… And Eddie would have to go down there and face them—with both him and Richie looking like fucking messes. 

“I just realized that…Blue here should probably sign the books, too. Don’t you think? I mean, he’s the big star.”

“That would be really cute… Kids would like that. They’d rather have the dog’s signature than yours.”

Richie let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh. 

“Yeah, like I said. Bill’s gonna kill me. Now we’ve gotta do three times the work… And I need a stamp pad for Big Guy and his monster feet.” Richie grabbed both of Blue’s front paws and played with them. “Shame they neutered you, buddy. I’m sure all the bitches out there know what it means when a dog’s got big feet, huh?” Richie let out a loud laugh at that, actually seeming to be in slightly better spirits for a moment as he tacked on, “That’ll be the fuckin’ sequel, Eds. ‘Blue Finds His Missing Balls.’”

“Please don’t.” Eddie took the jokes as a sign that their discussion was done—at least for now. He’d probably have more to say once Bill and Steve were gone, but it was all too obvious now that he’d been suffering through sitting there signing books, keeping Bill and Steve entertained while inside he was horrified—terrified that his secret was going to get out.

Things had been going so well and Eddie was so, so worried it was all about to go right back to square one. This would dredge up memories, the nightmares… All over again. Richie had been so happy working on his little book and now this? 

They laid together in bed for well over an hour—Steve leaving with a friendly shout up the stairs. Bill texted Eddie to ask if things were okay and if he needed to leave or if they needed him to take a walk around the block. Eddie consulted Richie who told him, groggily, while still playing with Blue’s feet though the dog was now laying between them instead of on his chest, “He can leave if he wants… But if he wants to go get us some coffees, that’d be nice.”

“You want a latte or something?” Eddie asked. Richie nodded a little so Eddie took that as as much direction as he was going to get. He texted Bill to ask if he could do a coffee run, then sent their order when Bill said that sounded perfect. Decaf for Richie, he mentioned—capitalized and repeated over and over because caffeine would make him really sick. 

“And tell the barista it’s a health issue. PLEASE. It HAS to be DECAF for Richie.” 

This bought them another half hour laying together before Bill was back and calling up the stairs.

“Guess you better put pants on,” Richie said, voice heavy.

“You know, you can stay up here and rest if you need to, right? I can bring you your latte… Bill and I can go get a big ink pad for Blue’s foot.”

“Yeah… But I’m supposed to finish signing those with him tonight… I’m supposed to—”

“But I can go get an ink pad for Blue and then we can all three be signing stuff instead of me sitting there looking stupid,” Eddie tried. He would do damned near anything to keep Richie in bed a little longer where he was safe.

“That is a good idea,” Richie said. “Blue needs to go out first though… It’s been a while.” The magic words had the dog lifting his head from where it had been laying on the pillow beside Richie’s. 

“I’ll take him and bring him right back up to you, okay?” Eddie offered. Richie nodded and turned his attention back to Blue as Eddie finished getting dressed. He got Blue to get reluctantly up from the bed and coaxed him downstairs to go outside. He set him out on the patio, then accepted the coffees from Bill.

“I make sure his was decaf,” Bill said, tapping Richie’s cup. 

“Thank you. Thank you so much. He gets so, so sick if they fuck it up. I mean, headaches, heart palpitations, the whole nine yards.”

“Yeah… Is he doing okay? He seemed a little out of it earlier,” Bill said, keeping his voice low.

“He’s a little stressed. I think too much excitement for the day,” Eddie said, knowing he had to look just about as rough as Richie did right now. “But, uh—hey! He had an idea… Do you want to go to, like, an art store with me really quick? He thought it’d be cool to have Blue’s paw print in the signed books.”

“That is a good idea! Why didn’t I think of that?” Bill asked, laughing though it seemed forced. “Yeah, sure! He probably needs to take a cat nap after all that hard work,” Bill tacked on with a wink that somehow, from him, didn’t feel condescending. “We can get started on the stacks we worked through until he wakes up.”

So, Eddie got Blue back inside and back up to Richie was on the verge of sleep but hanging on for Eddie to kiss him and say goodbye. Eddie warned him that he’d better still be in bed, still _breathing_ in bed, when he got home, then left with Bill to go to the store. They made small talk about Bill’s wife and his latest projects, avoiding the subject of Richie’s mental well-being all together. Eddie was thankful for that, because if he dwelled on it much longer, he’d start crying in the passenger seat of Bill’s rental car. 

Mostly, they talked about the book and how great it was and how much of a success they both hoped it would be—for Richie’s sake. He needed another big break. He needed some success—something to feel proud of.

The trip took a little over forty-five minutes and Richie was sound asleep with Blue at his side. Eddie smiled at him and drew the curtains over the sliding glass door to their balcony and then coaxed Blue up from the bed to come downstairs. He didn’t want to go, but he was a good boy and listened without much fight. He put up with the ink pad very well once he’d gotten to sniff it and sniff the books he was meant to stamp. They chose to put his stamp on the blank, inner cover so it would be side-by-side with Richie and Bill’s signatures on the title page. 

Eddie stamped, Bill wrote in “Blue” underneath each print in a fun, childlike scribble. Eddie was glad they’d gotten a couple extra ink pads because the one seemed like it was starting to run dry after the first twenty copies. 

“Why are there so many?” Eddie asked, heart sinking as he realized all the boxes had to be stamped by Blue since there was no way he could attend the book signings where Bill and Richie were going to autograph the rest.

“Because this shit’s gonna sell,” Bill said, as if enforcing a new law. 

God, Eddie hoped that was true. He needed this to work. For Richie’s sake… Another failure or setback…it’d crush him.

“Do you think Richie’s gonna be pissed I’m writing his son’s name and not him?” Bill asked after another twenty copies—the first ink pad somehow still going strong. Blue had switched feet though and panted little drops of drool onto someone of the copies. 

“I don’t think so. His handwriting isn’t very consistent so people’d probably think we had a ton of different people writing it or something if they compared ‘em. This way it at least looks like the same person did it. How are his signatures looking?”

“Scribbley, but you can make out the R and the T. And he dots his I’s.”

“Good. That’s good,” Eddie said, smiling when the word ‘good’ had Blue letting out a quiet woo-woo in response, thinking it was about him. Because nothing else in the world besides Beluga was Good. 

“It’s good for him. You know? Doing this. Signing things, getting back into the swing of it. I know it’s hard on him, too, but it’s good. You should’ve seen him when he found out about the _Ellen_ thing. His eyes were like...fireworks, or something. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen him that happy.”

To know that underneath his excitement, Richie had been filled with terror that his secret would come out prior to going on that show made Eddie’s heart break even more. He had them all fooled, just like he often had Eddie fooled that he was feeling better than he was. 

“There’s reviews coming out, too. Here soon. My agent says he heard good things from the critics. Said someone wrote that Blue could be the next Clifford. Can you believe it?”

“Trading the Big Red Dog for a Big Beluga one?” Eddie asked, smiling at that idea while Blue licked his cheek—wondering why his name was being brought up, probably. 

“I think… Eds, if Richie can keep brainstorming and coming up with little stories like this one, I think this could be it. This could be his thing. I’ll definitely keep drawing for him. Honestly, it’s a nice break from what I usually do.”

Yes, Eddie thought. All of that sounded amazing. It’d be better, too, if Richie could hold on long enough to see it come to light. 

Just as they were finishing up with all the books Richie and Bill had both finished signing, the man could be heard shuffling around upstairs and Eddie was quick to stamp one last book before wiping Blue’s foot the damp cloth he had ready and set him free. Blue would make sure he didn’t fall down the stairs or trip on his way to the bathroom. 

Richie made it downstairs safe and sound and fawned over the prints they’d done, making a whole thing out of showing one of the copies to Blue who sniffed it then looked up at his dad. Eddie forced them all to pose with the stacks of books, showing off the paw print autograph. It took a few tries to get Richie, Bill, and Beluga positioned in a way that looked natural still composed, but Eddie managed to get a couple of shots that Richie and Bill could post online. (He also got a couple shots of Blue licking Richie in the face, one of which where the dog’s tongue was practically in his mouth.) 

In the pictures, everything looked so perfect. 

Why did there _always_ have to be something horrible underneath?

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for any inaccuracies! Thank you for reading and let me know what you think!


End file.
